Waiting for Peace
by Badumtissh
Summary: Following on from the end of Series Two (**SPOILER ALERT**). Agnes and Henri's letters included! This is my first ever fanfic attempt so hope it's okay. All feedback v gratefully received.
1. Chapter 1

Henri encloses Agnes in his arms and pulls her tight against him. His body remembers her, remembers doing this years ago, how she felt then. He never thought he would do this, but now she is here. As if he dreamed her, she came to him.

'Victor told me I should come to you,' she had said. 'Was he wrong?'

His face is buried in her neck, inhaling the scent of her, feeling the warmth of her skin. He fancies he can feel her pulse against his lips, beating fast.

'I love you, Agnes!' he said, smiling at the truth of it. 'I have wanted to say that for so long.'

How good, to be able to kiss her again.

'You have to promise to come back to me, Henri,' she said. There were tears on her cheeks.

'I will,' he said, 'and when I do I will never leave you again.'

He kisses her again, because he can. There will be no separation between them now, even though in the morning he must leave. Agnes feels it too, because she grips his arm and steers him towards the park gates, towards her home. There is an urgency about her pace, but he tries to pull her back.

'We cannot go to the house,' he says. 'It would not be… the right thing.'

'She won't know,' Agnes says. 'She will be in bed by now. Besides -' she begins, and then cuts herself short, an odd sort of smile playing on her lips.

'Besides… what?'

'Never mind,' Agnes says. 'Come on, it's not far.'

In his head, his principles are battling with his desires. Before, years ago, when he invited her to his rented rooms and seduced her, it was just something that felt right at the time. He did not love her then, at least, did not recognise it as love. She was his ingenue, his muse, his lover. A beautiful young woman who attracted him. That was different, it was one thing, and now it is another. This is the woman he will marry - that is, if God spares him from the battles that lie ahead. Now he must show respect. Now he must court her in the proper manner, not lose control.

But, it is one night. Not even a whole a night, it is just a few hours until dawn will break over the city and he will take the train for the coast, find a boat to take him to France, along with hundreds of British Tommies heading for the Front. He has heard the stories. He knows it is unimaginable in the trenches, that his life expectancy is poor.

He cannot think about that now. He has made his decision. And although his heart is rendered in two at the thought of leaving her behind, the thought that he might never see her again, he will not change his mind. This, then, will be his reward at this resolve: he will spend what remains of the night with her. In the dark days ahead, he will have the memories to console him. And she will write to him, of course she will - just as she did when he was in prison.

They climb the steps to the imposing front door of the house Agnes shares with her friend and colleague, the woman who owns the property: Josie Mardle.

'What about the servants?' Henri asks, his voice an urgent whisper.

Agnes tries the door. It is locked.

'They'll be in bed,' she says. 'Don't worry, I have a latch key. But we must be very quiet.'

Inside, he does not speak. The house is in darkness. Agnes takes him by the hand and leads him up the wide staircase. At the top, Agnes stops. There is a sound, close by, a woman's laughter, followed by a 'shh!' and quiet again. Agnes meets his eyes, raises an eyebrow. Miss Mardle - in her bedroom - is also not alone.

From behind a closed door, a woman's voice - the owner of the giggle - calls: 'Agnes? Is that you, dear?'

'Yes,' Agnes calls back. 'It's only me. I'm sorry if I woke you.'

'I'm not asleep yet. Did you fasten the door?'

'Yes, I did. Goodnight.'

'Goodnight.'

Throughout this exchange Henri stands before Agnes, holding his breath, his eyes on hers. He does not want to be found here. He does not want things to be difficult for Agnes, if he is to be out of her life tomorrow.

The landing is carpeted, their footfalls muffled as Agnes takes his hand again and leads him to her bedroom, at the back of the house. She opens the door and pulls him inside. The room is large, sparsely furnished. The curtains are open and the garden outside is lit by the moonlight. He crosses to the window. London feels peaceful tonight. You would never know from the quiet darkness outside that just a few miles across the Channel, war is raging.

Agnes is behind him. She slides her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back.

'Are you afraid?' she whispers.

'I am afraid for losing you,' he says. 'That, only.' He surprises himself with this admission, not with the truth of it but that he is able to say it out loud.

He turns his back on the garden and faces her again. She releases her hold on him, gives him a brief smile, and goes to light the lamp in the room. He draws the curtains on the silence outside, leaving them open in the middle so that the dawn light will wake him. If he should fall asleep, that is. He has no plans to do that. He intends to remember every moment between now and the time to leave.

Agnes sits on the edge of her bed. He goes to her and kneels, pulling one of her feet onto his lap, begins to unlace her boots. 'Henri, really,' she laughs. 'You shouldn't…'

'Let me,' he says.

She lets him. He unlaces, eases the boot away from her foot, tucks it under the bed. Then the next. He concentrates on his task, the warmth of her skin through the stockings. He slides his hand up her calf, at the back, memorising the shape of it. He hears her sharply indrawn breath.

'I wasted so much time,' she says.

He looks up at her. Her eyes are full of tears again.

'I always knew,' she said. 'I knew it was you I loved, but Victor - he's a good man, and I just thought… I don't know. I was blundering down that path, not being true to myself. Not allowing myself to feel what I was feeling.'

'I understand,' he says. 'For me, it was the same. What matters is now.'

He gets to his feet and sits next to her on the bed. As he did once before, long ago, he pulls at the pins holding her hair up, allows it to fall around her shoulders. She turns her back to him, lifting her hair out of the way, so that he can help unfasten her dress. His fingers are unsteady, doing this. He fumbles, laughs.

'Come on,' she teases. 'You must have done this a hundred times.'

She stands, lifts the dress over her head and hangs it in the large wood wardrobe in the corner of the room. She unclips her own corset, removing it. He leans back on the bed, watching. Now she is clothed in simple white cotton and she is soft, all the edges and clips removed. He holds out his hand to her.

'Now you,' she says. 'It's your turn, Henri.'

He nods, undresses quickly, without any accompanying allure. It is just clothing. It is just a barrier between them. He does not stop at his underwear, as she has done, but removes the garments quickly, comes back to the bed where she is lying on the covers, watching him. 'You remember?' he asks, lying next to her, placing his hand on her waist.

'Of course,' she says. 'I remember everything.'

She had been a virgin, their first time. English girls always were. French girls sometimes pretended to be, but he could always tell. He thought it had been a mistake, at the time, taking that thing from her that they all counted so precious. He thought she might be full of regret, would accuse him of seduction, of stealing her reputation, of taking advantage. She had done none of these things, but where he had thought she would pursue him, would want his attention and his heart and therefore would make things difficult, she had not done that either. It had been a few simple nights they had shared, in the end: beginning with that first time where he had been gentle and tender with her, made sure that he caused her no pain, and yet he had taken his satisfaction. And then Valerie had turned up unexpectedly and whatever he had with Agnes was over.

Kissing her, he wants to ask about Victor. Whether she had done anything with him, other than kiss. Whether he had taken advantage, maybe since their engagement. He thinks not. Victor would have wanted her to remain a virgin until they were married. Henri wonders if he knew. If, maybe, that was what had prompted him to call off the engagement.

She moves next to him and suddenly he has no patience left, he needs to feel her skin, he needs to see her. Henri moves his hand under her shift, pushing the fabric up and out of the way, revealing her small, round, perfect breasts. The corset has left red imprints on her white skin, the wearing of it all day has left its scent as well as its mark. He bends his head to kiss the pinkish streaks, that are fading already, replaced by a flush of arousal. Her fingers thread through his hair. He uses his tongue, tasting her and tracing circles around her breasts. He will remember this, how she is now. He fights to preserve the moment.

She lets out a sound, a sharply indrawn breath.

######

'I have something for you,' he says.

From the pocket of his jacket he brings forth a small box, which he opens for her. Through the welling tears she sees gold, a necklace, something ornate with diamonds and a dark green stone.

'I can't accept it,' she says.

He laughs, a little. 'I need you to take care of it for me. It belonged to my mother. Will you do that?'

'Oh,' Agnes says. He didn't mean it as a gift - that was presumptuous of her. 'Yes, of course I will, Henri. And you'll come back for it, then, won't you?'

'I will come back for you, Agnes, not for this. You are worth more to me than any jewel, whoever it belonged to.'

#####

Dear Henri,

I hope you are well, and that your journey was not too arduous. I thought about you all of yesterday, wondering where you were, and what you were doing. I think you must have been quite tired out. I hope you got to sleep somewhere last night, and that you made all of your travel connections. I wonder where you are, at this very moment.

I will write to you every day, and I will keep my letters safe, until you write and tell me where I should send them. I hope you will write to me soon, Henri.

I went to work but it was quite a difficult day. Everything is still busy and lots of people noticed you were not there. They were all asking me - Miss Mardle, Mr Crabbe, Kitty. In the end I am afraid I got quite snappy with them. And then I went to the studio and cried for a bit. It still smells of your tobacco, and you left a jacket behind, hanging up on the hook. I shall leave it there, for when you return.

Don't worry about me, Henri, even with the crying. I'm not a crier really. I will be fine soon, I will get on with it and be all right until you get back. But I miss you so much already. Come back to me.

Your Agnes

—

Dear Henri,

I think by now you might have arrived at wherever it is you are going. I hope you can write to me soon with an address. I so want to hear that you are alright. You know I will be waiting for this.

I saw Victor this morning, on my way to work. He was waiting for me outside the Underground station and he walked to the store with me. He asked after you. I told him you had gone to fight for France. He asked if he had done the right thing. I told him he had, and that I was grateful to him for giving me the chance to see you before you left. It was a kind act, he is a kind man. He and I have much in common; you could say we are cut from the same cloth. But you cannot force love, when it's not really there, can you? Speaking the same language, being the same class, knowing the same areas of London, isn't enough. So Victor is a good man, a kind man, but he is not the right man for me, Henri, and he never was. I'm just sorry I needed others to make me realise it.

Miss Mardle and I had dinner tonight. Florian, who is the Belgian gentleman lodging with us, has gone to meet with some gentlemen from an orchestra here in London. She had found him work in Manchester, but he turned it down. He seems to like it here, and who can blame him? Miss Mardle is so kind to us both. Anyway, Miss Mardle - I will call her Josie from now on, to save time - asked after you once again. For a moment I could not reply, and she laid her hand over mine and said, 'whatever's the matter? You look completely lost.' I felt the tears starting once again and this time I could not hold them back. So, Henri, I'm afraid I had to tell her. I think she had her suspicions anyway. I told her Victor had broken off our engagement because he had recognised our attraction, when we did not quite recognise it ourselves. I don't think Josie is quite sure if I was crying for Victor, or for you, or for myself.

I have no such confusion. Come back to me, Henri. Write to me soon.

Your Agnes

—

Dear Henri,

This week is taking so long. I cannot believe it is only Wednesday today, that I last saw you on Sunday morning. It feels like years already.

I saw Mr Selfridge today, it's the first day he has been in the store all week. You know how he wears his heart on his sleeve. I am worried about him, because he looks pale and unsmiling. Something is up. Kitty wonders if he has heard some news about the war, but I think he would share it with us if it were that. All the talk at the moment is of conscription, and if it happens then the store will have no young men left here at all. I think it is something else, though, that's made him sad - and I wonder for his family. I wish you were here, Henri, because you would know what it was or you would talk to him to try and cheer him up. He has no friends like you. I hope you write to him, as well as to me.

I hope I might hear from you by Friday. I will keep writing, anyway. Stay safe, my Henri.

Your Agnes

—

Ma chere Agnes,

I hope you are well. I have no time, but I have to send you this: you can write to me at this address. I am travelling still but the regiment will forward any letters you send. I have been writing you letters every day, I will send them as soon as I can. I'm looking forward to hearing from you.

Henri Leclair

—

Dear Henri,

I got your letter this morning, so I am sending this letter, together with the ones I wrote earlier this week. I have numbered them, so you can read them in order. I will continue to do this. I imagine it will take a while for the letters to get to you, and in future they might arrive out of order. So this way you will be able to read them as I wrote them to you.

I was so relieved to hear from you! Even such a short letter. I held the paper close to my face, trying to catch your scent, but I think the letter must have been through many hands since it left yours. It was good to see your handwriting on the envelope, my heart absolutely soared. Josie wanted to know what it said, I read it out to her. She tells me it's likely that your letter will be censored by the authorities. I hope this is not true. I wish that you will write me love letters, Henri, because I will write them to you. As much as I want you back here quickly, it might be months or even a year before I see you again. I want to remind you of what we shared, of how it felt, so that you don't forget me and that you want to come back to me quickly.

Your Agnes

—

Dear Henri,

It's Friday today, at last, this week has been the longest of my life. I wanted to stay late in the studio, waiting until the store was quite empty, because it is here that I feel closest to you. We shared so many good times in this room. This was where I kissed you for the first time, do you remember? You made it clear that you were not going to make an advance. You can't imagine how much my heart was thumping, Henri! I felt so bold, to do that. To get so close to you. I thought you might laugh, that you might push me away, that you might have been offended by my presumptuousness. But you kissed me back. A moment ago I closed my eyes and remembered how it felt, the way you looked at me when we parted. It felt like the start of a something magic, a fairy tale, my own private fairy tale with my own handsome prince. I skipped all the way home, after that kiss. I feel silly telling you this, you must have thought me such a girl, so naive! Well, I am a girl. I am your girl, Henri. Come home to me.

Your Agnes

—

Dear Henri,

This time last week, Victor came to me in the studio and told me he couldn't marry me, he couldn't take me away from the store, because I would grow to resent him. He told me to go to you, Henri. I looked for you in the store, I went to your apartment, but you weren't there. I don't know why I bothered to look because if I had listened to my heart I would have found you straight away. You were in the park, standing exactly where I had left you the night before, after our walk. It was as if you'd been waiting there the whole time, waiting for me to come to you. That's what I'm thinking, anyway. I can think what I like, can't I? You're not here to ask.

Don't mind me, Henri. I'm feeling blue today. I shan't send this one.

Your Agnes

—

Ma chere Agnes

We are stopped near Amiens, we will be here for three days and all my comrades believe this means we shall receive letters and parcels from our families. It means, also, that I can collect the letters I have written and put them into a package, as there is a post office here and I can send them to you. They are just notes, written on railway platforms and waiting by the sides of roads, Agnes, but they will show you how I have been thinking of you all these past days. I continue to write, and wait to hear from you. I hope all is well with you, and George, and Miss Mardle, and everybody at the store. Please send them my best regards. And to you, my lovely Agnes, I send all my love.

Henri

—

Ma chere Agnes,

I am waiting at Dover for the boat, along with hundreds and hundreds of others. I left you just a few hours ago, and it feels already like the longest time. As soon as I have an address for you, I will send it. There are no hotel rooms available here, we are all sleeping wherever we can. The lucky ones (I am one) have shelter, some are outside sleeping against the harbour wall. I am in the offices of the harbour master. I think about where I spent last night, Agnes, and wonder how long it will be before I can be with you again. Now I need to sleep, I am very tired. I will write again as soon as I can.

Henri.

—

Ma chere, my darling Agnes,

It is evening again, and I write to you while I still have light to see. I bought some paper from a British soldier for some unbelievable sum. I must try and find somewhere to get more, if I am to write you letters every day. I have joined the cavalry, the regiment of my father. They tell me I can have a commission, even though I have no military training. I judge from this, and a conversation with a man who is also an NCO, his name is Albert D'Ansigny, that the French Army consists of peasants conscripted from the fields. Any man who can read orders, therefore, is given a position of command. My new comrade Albert was a teacher last week. He could scarcely stop laughing when I told him I was a creative director at a department store in London, I think he feels I have little hope on the field of battle. Despite his humour, I like the man. It is good to have a friend. We are to travel further tomorrow, inland by train to a training centre near Amiens. I am sure these details will be dull to you, ma cherie. I must finish now.

Your Henri

—

Ma chere Agnes,

I have had no time to write for two days, I am so sorry. I have thought about you so many times. I am waiting again and so I have time to write you another letter. We are moving again, by truck this time, north towards the fighting. We have had some training here, but we are to get more from the men who have been at the Front. Myself and Albert are in charge of two cadres of soldiers. They are good men, brave men, and I feel some measure of responsibility for them all already. I must tell you, Agnes, I have given the home address of Mr Selfridge for any notifications they may need to send, but I have given your name. I have written to Harry, and I will post it when I post these letters to you. If anything happens to me, I want you to hear it from a friend, not from a telegram or a letter. But you need not worry, my sweet. I will stay out of trouble, because I have to see you again.

Henri

—-

Agnes is at breakfast when the post arrives. All that waiting, waiting, and now here it is - a thick envelope with letters inside it from Henri. She is barely able to contain her excitement, and yet is afraid to open it for fear of what the envelope contains.

'Well, go on, then!' Josie says. Her eyes sparkle with it.

Agnes takes a deep breath, and opens. There are several letters, by the look of it, and each one has little drawings he has done, pen and ink: a drawing of huddled shapes, men, against a wall - sleeping in the open? A drawing of the White Cliffs of Dover, the stern of a boat, stars, flowers, little tiny patterns in the margin. Even heading to war, he cannot stifle his creativity. Ma chere Agnes, she reads. He has not received any of her letters - but then, he may have received them by now. Their letters are destined to cross, questions unanswered, for however long it takes.

'Well?' Josie asks. 'How is he?'

'He's well,' Agnes stammers, reading as fast as she can. She will go back to the letters, savour them, when she is alone. 'He's got a commission… in the cavalry.'

'I say,' murmurs Josie. 'Well, he is a gentleman.'

'Parcels,' Agnes says. 'He says they are expecting letters and parcels from family. I wonder if I can send him a parcel, the way I send them to George? Will the Red Cross forward them, do you think?'

'No harm in trying,' Josie says. 'We can put something together today, if you like.'

Agnes is distracted at work. She has the letters on her at all times, in the pocket of her skirts, and she feels the weight of them bumping against her thigh when she walks. She finds it reassuring to know they are there.

The mood in the store is sombre, not just because of the news from the Front - more casualties, daily - but also because of Mr Selfridge's demeanour. He stays in his office, rarely comes down to the shop floor. The store feels as though it is ticking along, waiting for something to bring it to life. Agnes imagines it is because Henri is missing. In the studio she is trying to put together a display for the window, without any direction from above, without any help from Henri. Trying to find some bright colours to boost morale, and failing. Everything seems dull. She finds her eyes wandering to Henri's jacket, still hanging untouched on its hook, when a message arrives - Mr Selfridge wants to see her.

Her heart is thumping, going up in the lift. She has Henri's words fresh in her mind, that he has instructed Mr Selfridge to give her bad news in person. Surely not, surely he is still safe? But the letters were sent days ago. He could be anywhere now. He could be dead, already. Agnes takes a deep breath in, pulls herself together. She would feel it. If he were dead, or injured, she would already know.

Miss Plunkett instructs Agnes to go straight in.

'How is he?' Agnes whispers.

Miss Plunkett raises an eyebrow, but has no reply.

She knocks, and enters. 'You wanted to see me, Mr Selfridge?'

Further words die on her lips, as the man turns in his chair towards her. He looks pale, sad, and her heart thuds at the prospect of bad news. 'Whatever is it, sir? You look - forgive me…'

'Oh, Miss Towler, please take a seat. You must forgive my appearance.'

'Are you quite well?'

'I am just fine. And how are you?' He manages a smile at last, although it does not linger.

'I have - I received letters from Mr Leclair. Have you heard from him too?'

'Yes, and that's what I wanted to talk to you about.'

'Is it bad news?'

Now, at last, he laughs. 'Oh no, nothing like that. Dear Miss Towler, I am sorry. Did he tell you that he has given my address for official notifications? You must have thought… oh dear.'

Agnes takes a heaving breath in. 'Thank goodness.'

'I hope you don't mind if I am frank with you. I understand that your - ah - friendship with Mr Leclair - with Henri - has become more than just a professional one.'

Agnes looks at her hands, gripped together in her lap, unsure of how to respond.

'I realise that store policy frowns on relationships between members of staff, but given that there is a forced separation in place, I am willing to consider these to be special circumstances. You can be open with me, Miss Towler. Henri is my friend, and if you will forgive me, I think that means you are my friend too.'

She thinks carefully about how best to respond, clears her throat. 'Of course. Absolutely.'

'Good, good. Thank you.'

Once again, his smile, warm though it is, does not linger.

'If we are friends, sir, then may I please ask you what's troubling you?'

'Oh, Agnes, is it so obvious?'

'I'm afraid so. The staff - everyone is concerned for you.'

He does not reply for a moment, looks at his blotter. And then, to Agnes' horror, he places his face in his palms, his elbows on the table. His shoulders are shaking, but there is no sound as he weeps.

'Oh, sir,' she says, standing and going round to the other side of the desk before she can stop herself. She places a hand on his huge, strong shoulder - such a giant of a man, to be brought so low - and crouches slightly by his side. 'Whatever is it? Whatever's happened?'

He clears his throat and breathes in, wiping his eyes, recovering himself. And he looks her in the eyes, and his face crumples again, and this time he is turned towards her and she finds herself in an awkward embrace. Harry Selfridge is crying on her shoulder. Her knees find the weight of him against her too much to bear and she almost falls backwards, finding the edge of the desk for support. There is a sob, and another. Oh dear God, this was not at all what she had expected, and her heart swells for him.

A moment later, he recovers himself. A cough, and he pulls back. 'Oh dear,' he says, his voice high. 'Please forgive me.'

Agnes returns to her seat, as he blows his nose noisily into a handkerchief. She remembers, once, how Harry Selfridge had offered her his handkerchief, in her parlour, when she had cried over the man who called himself her father. 'It's quite all right,' she says. 'As you said, sir, we are friends. You have been kind to me on so many occasions, I wish there was something I could do to help you in return.'

When she looks up at him, he is back to himself - the paler version. The tears are wiped away.

'It's - ah - Mrs Selfridge. My Rose. She is… unwell.'

Agnes knows what this means. For all his love, he would not be shedding uncontrollable tears over a common cold. 'I am so sorry to hear that, sir.'

'Yes, yes. Thank you. I don't know,' he says, his voice rising again, 'what I am to do without her.'

Agnes feels tears in her own eyes, fights them back. She knows what this means, too, this fear of imminent loss. She has felt it every day over George, and now it's doubled because of Henri.

'We are both going to have to be strong, sir. Sometimes - if I can speak plainly - sometimes things happen that we can't control. And then we must be strong and do our best to carry on. For everyone's sakes.'

'You're so right, Agnes. Thank you.'

'Is there anything - anything at all - I can do?'

He is looking her in the eyes, and now at last she sees something of the spark return to them. 'You can remind me, as you did just then, of what's important. I told Rose I would stay with her, but she sends me to work every day. She says I have to keep things normal, and she is right. You are both right.'

Agnes smiles, feeling that she has, at least, managed to bring some comfort. It is not much, but for a moment at least, she feels useful instead of helpless. 'The window display, Mr Selfridge. I was thinking - maybe something bright - some gowns, maybe -'

'Whatever you feel, Miss Towler. I am sure you will do a fantastic job. Thank you.'

Miss Towler notes the change in tone. They are back to being professional. Very well, then. Back to work. She rises to her feet.

'Miss Towler, I forgot the reason I called you here. Please, sit for a moment longer. It's about Henri.'

'Yes?' Agnes sinks into the chair again, her colour rising at the sound of her lover's name. Her lover. Her Henri.

'You were right, he has written to me, and we had a chance to speak briefly before he left. He has asked me to consider you as his next of kin.'

'Oh, but sir-'

'I realise that it's unconventional, but I agree. He has made his intentions towards you clear?'

Agnes thinks of the moment Henri said those words - I love you, Agnes - and of the hours that came thereafter, when he made love to her in the darkness of the bedroom in Miss Mardle's house. He said nothing of marriage, and it hadn't crossed her mind either. One engagement had just ended, the thought of another was the very last thing…. And then he had given her his mother's jewels to take care of.

'I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Selfridge.'

'Miss Towler - Agnes. I'm not sure what you know of Henri's family…'

'Very little.'

'His family are - well - French nobility. He is estranged from them, it's true, but he has some personal wealth. He wants to make sure that you are never left wanting.'

'I don't need money, Mr Selfridge, as long as I can keep my job here…'

'Don't misunderstand him. I believe he would have formalised things with you before he left, if he had had time. This is his way of doing that, from a distance, as it were. Now I would like to be able to write back to him, and reassure him that you will be safe, and taken care of, for as long as you live. Please, Miss Towler, allow me to do that. I believe it would offer him some comfort, until he can return to you.'

Agnes gets to her feet again, feeling the weight of the letters from her lover against her leg, as she moves. 'Whatever you think is best, Mr Selfridge. Thank you. Now, if there's nothing else…'

—

Dear Henri,

I got your letters today, thank you for them. It made me feel so much better to hear from you, although it's not the same as having you here. Mr Selfridge called me to his office. He is in a bad way, Henri. It's not for me to say why, but please do write to him. He needs you, maybe more even than I do. I feel so helpless with everything, with you gone, the store so miserable. I am sure George will get his orders in the next few days and then he will go back to the Front too. I said to Mr Selfridge that we must all be strong, and that's how it will be. I will think of happier things, paint a smile on my face and get through each day until you come back to me.

I asked George if he thinks it's possible for me to send you parcels by the Red Cross, and he thinks it is. So, I have put together some things and I will send them with this. George tells me the sorts of things you might need, but if there's anything else you think of, you only have to ask. I wish I could send myself to you, even just for a few hours, but these meagre items will just have to do, and I am sending them to you, Henri, with all my love always,

Your Agnes

—

Agnes makes it to the Red Cross office just as it is closing. The woman takes pity on her - it is raining - and lets her in, locking the door behind her.

'Can I send this to France?'

'Of course, that's where they're all going, int'it?'

'I mean, to the French cavalry.' Agnes shows her the address.

'Blimey. I'm not sure…'

'It's all the same thing, isn't it? The Red Cross, it's international, it's….'

'I just sends 'em, love, don't ask me.'

In the end Agnes leaves the parcel with her. It contains everything she could put together quickly, bought from the store and from the shops nearby: handkerchiefs - silk, of course - tobacco, chocolate, some socks, a bottle of ink, some drawing pencils, writing paper, envelopes, and, as a last thought, a couple of items he would recognise from the studio: useless things, where he is, but precious in another way, perhaps. She has included some fabric swatches, sprayed with the Selfridges Lily of the Valley scent, and a sketch they had done together, folded up into a tight square. And her letter.

—

Ma cherie, my darling Agnes,

I received your letters today. I cannot tell you how much it cheered me to receive them. It feels so very long since I saw you, and yet immediately I felt close to you again. Seeing your handwriting on the letters reminded me of the time you wrote to me in prison. You gave me strength, then, too. Today I feel so much better than I have been feeling. Please, you sound sad in your letters, and you must not be. I am quite well, and you know being an officer has its privileges. I have good food and shelter and for the moment at least I am quite safe. So please, do not worry about me. No more tears for your Henri. You mentioned in your letter the first kiss we shared, you asked me if I remembered, as if I would ever, ever forget this thing. Until then I did not quite believe you could have feelings for me. And now, Agnes, we have shared many kisses and more besides, and we have a million kisses waiting for us when I return to you, but I will never forget the first one.

I am waiting to receive orders, but for the time being, we wait. Our quarters here are beginning to feel homely. The sun shines most days and when the training finishes the men play football, or chess. Those that can write, write letters home. Those that cannot, ask the others to write for them. I have written many letters to many people, some quite formal, and others less so. I am tempted to add things that are unsaid, words of love that remain unspoken but are surely felt, but this is not my place. In my letters to you I am free to tell you of my feelings, however. I love you, Agnes, I love you so very much, my beautiful English rose. I am so grateful to our mutual friend, that he set you free, I cannot tell you. If I had been here without that chance to say goodbye to you, to tell you of my feelings, it would be so much more difficult to bear. As it is, whatever happens, I can know that I told you the truth, and I can continue to say it freely. I love you, my Agnes.

Always,

Your Henri

—

Dear Henri,

I think the postal service must be working quite well between here and France, because I received your letter this morning, and it was only dated Tuesday. Today is Thursday - so that is very quick. I hope you got my last, and the parcel I sent you. I am still not sure if the Red Cross can send to French cavalry officers, but if you receive it please let me know and I shall send another. And tell me what it is you need, so I can send things that are of use.

My George has received his orders, he will be leaving on Monday. Josie is planning a 'family meal' for us on Sunday, she has managed to order beef from the butcher's. She says we are all family now, and I am cheered by this. War brings us together, as well as driving us apart. George is very quiet, but he pretends to be fine. He says he is looking forward to being with his mates again. Florian, too, is quiet, and I wonder if he feels some measure of guilt at all these men leaving to fight, and him here in safety with the woman he loves.

Oh, look at me going on about such things, when you wrote me such a lovely letter! It made me feel so much stronger, to read your loving words, Henri. I am not as eloquent as you. I laugh to think of you adding your poetic words to the letters of the French farmers, and of the people the other end who might then have to read them aloud to the recipient! But then I remember these are real people with true and honest feelings themselves, that they cannot express because of the others who must be involved in the writing and the reading. We are lucky that it's just the two of us, Henri, and we can be honest with each other, and hold nothing back. So I must tell you this: my body aches for the want of you, Henri. I remember the way you touched me, and I think of some of the things we did, and I shiver with the very thought of you. So come back to me, Henri. Come back.

Your Agnes.

—

Ma chere Agnes,

I received your parcel and your letter today, thank you for sending it. It is the first parcel I have received and it made me very happy. It is full of useful things, and you sent me nothing which I will not treasure. Especially the silks that still smell so deliciously of the scent we created together, and the drawing which came from both our hands. They are precious things and I will keep them close to me always. For the moment, I have no real need of anything other than your love. We are looked after well here. But the paper in particular is well-received, as this is always in short supply. As you can see, I am using it already.

By the time you receive this, I expect George will have gone away. Agnes, there are many, many men here preparing to fight but you know I will always look for him everywhere I go. If our paths should cross, I shall do everything I can to keep him safe. But I expect he will be sent elsewhere. Be brave, ma chere - George is your little brother but he is a grown man now. One thing I am learning is that experience here is a good thing. Those that have been in war the longest are the safest; they know what to look out for, how to shield themselves. It is the new men, the ones who arrive here every day with shaved faces and cheerful smiles, who are the ones most in danger. George is a soldier now and he is stronger than you think he is. I am sure he will stay safe, and fight bravely for his country and for his sister.

You are right what you said in your letter. We can be honest with each other, and hold nothing back. The thought of your body aching for me affects me greatly, as you might imagine. In fact, I am thinking of your body a lot of the time. Your body, and your heart, and your beautiful eyes, and the way your hair looks and feels when it is down over your shoulders, untidy and tangled in my hands. I will touch you again, ma cherie. Wait for me.

Always

Your Henri

—

'Another letter! My goodness, Agnes, he's certainly keen.' Josie pours another cup of tea over breakfast as Agnes skims the letter, newly arrived. In her pocket is the letter she has written to send. She thinks she will need to write more, or even rewrite it entirely, before she sends it later today.

'He received the parcel,' Agnes says.

'Oh, good news. We shall be able to send more. What does he say? How is he?'

Agnes has turned the page. There is a drawing of some men playing football, trees. Below it, a drawing of a lily-of-the-valley that makes her heart lurch. She has reached the last paragraph, and the colour is rising in her cheeks at the thought of him affected by the words of her last letter. She knows exactly what he means by this. She remembers what happens to his body when he is aroused.

'He's - he's quite well,' Agnes says.

'Don't worry,' Josie replies. 'I can tell that's not a letter you will wish to read out loud.'

'Oh!' Agnes says, looking up. She smiles. There is a knowing look, passing between them. At the end of the table, Florian clears his throat.

—

The new window display is complete. Agnes is quite pleased with how it's turned out - or maybe relieved is a truer word. She wishes Henri were here to see it - his opinion would be valuable. Within hours, orders have been placed for three of the cocktail gowns she has decided to include, and she takes that as an indication that the display has had the desired effect.

In the night, Agnes wakes suddenly. There is no sound in the house, and for a moment she lies still, wondering what has disturbed her. And then from the landing she hears a door opening and closing. It is just Florian, going back to his own room. Agnes wishes she could say something to Josie, tell her that she knows full well where Florian spends most of the nights, so that they can come and go as they please without skulking around. But it's not just for her benefit, all this subterfuge: there are the servants to be considered. Wonderful as they are, discretion is never guaranteed. So Josie and her lover will have to continue to play this game, all the while spending their free moments together, loving each other. Agnes wishes she did not feel quite so jealous. In truth, nobody deserves happiness more than Josie.

The room is lit by the moon, shining around the edges of the curtains. Agnes gets out of bed and crosses to the window, throwing the curtains wide. Moonlight floods the room: a full moon, a cloudless sky. She wonders if Henri can see the moon, wherever he is, or whether he is asleep. She hugs her arms across her chest. This is exactly where he stood, that last night. Before he undressed. Before he took her to bed. Agnes glances back over her shoulder at the bed she has left, and remembers him in it. They did not sleep, at all, not even a moment. From the kiss by the window to the kiss by the door, as he was about to leave, every second was filled with love. Now that she has started to remember, she cannot stop. She has avoided thinking about this, for fear of the consequences. It doesn't do, to fall apart. She can remember other things, just about, without crying, but this is different.

She shivers, goes back to bed, pulls the sheets around her chin. Then pulls them down again, wriggles her nightdress up, pulls it over her head, tosses it to the floor. The feel of the sheets at her back, against her naked skin. She spreads her legs wide, her arms, lying like a starfish, displayed in the moonlight, with nobody to see. Lifts her knees. Slides one of her hands down, over her breasts, across her stomach, making her touch firm. The way he'd touched her.

'You should have brought your nightclothes,' she had told him, jokingly, lying here.

'I do not wear nightclothes.'

'Oh,' she had answered, shocked at the thought. 'What about -'

'What?' he had that amused smile, the one that said he was playing games with her. Enjoying himself. 'There is no-one to see.'

She wanted to say, in the chateau. When you were growing up. Surely you wore nightclothes then. But in the mean time she had become distracted at the thought of him naked in his bed every night. She slid her hand over his chest, through the tangle of dark hair that grew there. He had closed his eyes, his hand lightly touching hers as it moved across his skin.

'When we are together, you will have no need of nightclothes,' he said, his eyes still closed. 'I shall forbid the wearing of them.'

'Oh, really? You'll forbid it, will you?'

'Indeed. Well, you may wear them if you choose, but you will end up taking them off every night. Much better to not bother.'

With her head resting on his chest, she listened as his heart began to beat faster. When she opened her eyes, she saw his penis growing once more, hardening. She thought for a moment before taking her hand from his chest and closing it over the hot flesh. He took a sudden breath in, arched his back a little, groaning. She stroked him again, the way she learned how to do, the way he taught her. His hand tangled into her hair, his thumb caressed her cheek, pressing into the place where her smile dimpled her skin. She turned her head, nipped his thumb gently with her teeth. He smiled, then, a long languid smile, before opening his eyes to look at her. She was suddenly aware of how tired he must be, of the long journey ahead of him.

'Do you want me to stop?' she asked softly.

'No, Agnes, no. Don't stop.'

He was fully erect, and with both of his hands on her waist suddenly he lifted her, pulling her across, until she was straddling him. Caught off-balance, she laughed nervously. He pushed her hair away from her face, bunching it over one of her shoulders, pulling her face down to him so he could kiss her. She could feel him between her legs, strong and bold and proud against her sex. And she moved back, feeling him filling her up inside. Her body contracted around him, and he must have felt it too because he let out a sound against her kiss. His hand slid over her back, down to her bottom, grabbing a handful of her and pulling her closer.

She held him deep inside her body, moving slowly, squeezing him tight with the muscles she had only just realised she had.

'Agnes Towler,' he said. 'You do not realise what you do to me.'

This time, she watched his face as he released inside of her. He brought her hand to his mouth and held it fast against his lips to muffle the cry. His eyes were wide open at that moment, staring into hers; then his brow furrowed and his eyes closed, his head back, his whole body tense, rigid under her. She fancied she could feel it, inside her body. It was a moment of wonder for her, seeing him laid waste because of her body, because of what she could do to him.

When she felt him begin to slip away, she moved off him and cuddled up to his side. He turned to face her. His eyes opened and looked into hers. He stroked a thumb down her cheek, smiling at her.

'Was that all right?' she asked.

He nodded, laughing for a moment. 'Agnes, if only you knew how perfect you are. Everything you do. But -'

'But? But what?'

'We should not have done that, without protection. It is too much of a risk.'

She wanted to reassure him, tell him that she could feel it between her thighs, that his seed was leaving her body. 'But it was better,' she murmured. 'Nicer for us both, not to stop until you were done. Wasn't it?'

'It was better, yes. Of course it was.'

Agnes, having known cruelty as a child, has never had much inclination to have children herself. She had witnessed her own mother go through the agony of childbirth twice, once with George, and once, much later, with the un-named baby daughter who had already died inside, thanks to her father's fists. Why bring more misery into the world? There was enough hardship as it was. Far better to look after yourself, look after the family you had, without adding to it. But lying in Henri's arms, knowing that it was possible to make a baby with him, that what they had already done might have created life inside her, she felt some kind of dangerous thrill. Her reputation would be utterly destroyed. She would have to leave Selfridges, probably Miss Mardle would throw her out on her ear, who knows what might happen then - but she would have Henri's child, a child created from love. She would have had some small part of him, with her forever.

And now, in her bed, naked, exposed, alone, she rests a hand on her flat belly, and wonders.

—

Dear Henri,

I know there is much you cannot tell me about your life now, about where you are and what you are doing, and so I thought I might be bold and ask you about things you can tell me, although you may prefer not to. You know much about my family, my baby brother George and the man who calls himself my father, but I know nothing about yours. I know you grew up in a castle (and that you are my fairy tale prince) but that is all. So I'd like to know about your family, because I want to know everything about you.

Write to me soon.

Your Agnes

—

Ma chere Agnes,

You asked about my family. Well it is a long, and difficult story, but you are right, I have little I can tell you about my life here that will be cheering or happy, so I will tell you the tale of the Leclairs. My mother's name was Marie-Christina. She was a beautiful, kind, talented woman who came from one of the best families in France. Her family was very rich, and because of that she was not permitted to marry for love. A husband was chosen for her from another noble line, a cavalry officer who had been decorated for bravery in the Franco-Prussian war. His name was Claude, and sadly he was not a kind man and he did not love her, or treat her as she deserved to be treated. Despite his unkindnesses she had three children with him. Hugo, the eldest, was a clever, proud boy who was an excellent horseman, a good sportsman and very strong. The second child was a girl. Her name was Celeste and she was very beautiful, like her mother, but blonde, like her father. She played piano and violin, and sang like an angel. Soon after, the third child was born, another boy. His name was Henri-Pierre, but his sister called him just Henri. He was most like his mother, dark-haired, good at art and music. Henri was sent away to school, like his brother, but unlike his brother he hated it there. Three times he ran away and three times he was sent back. While he was at school, at the age of thirteen, his mother died of consumption. Henri was not permitted to come home for the funeral. He tried but they locked him in a room until it was over. A year later, his sister Celeste, whom he loved very much, also fell ill. This time Henri ran away from school and did not go back. He stayed at home with his sister until she died, six months later. Claude was living in Paris at this time, drinking too much and gambling his wife's money, until one night he was attacked in a bar and suffered terrible head injuries. His valet brought him back to the family home, where he recovered a little but always had pain in his head, which made him angry all the time. He took drugs to make him sleep, and drank alcohol. And Henri stayed out of his way. Hugo had joined the army, and never came back, not even when his sister was unwell. As soon as Henri reached his majority he left home and went to America. And there he painted and listened to opera and wondered what to do with his life, until the day he met Harry Gordon Selfridge in a bar and ended up helping him to make his stores look good.

So there you have it, my darling Agnes, the sad story of the Leclair family. And now you see why I am happy being away from them, and why I understand a little what it means to have a bad father. Our backgrounds are a little different, as you said yourself, but I think that means nothing when you have love. And I have love for you, my Agnes.

Always yours,

Henri-Pierre Leclair

—

A Monday again. Today is three weeks since Henri left. Every Monday rolls past like a millstone, each getting heavier and dragging him further away.

This Monday is worse still, for many reasons. Since George left for the Front she has had just one letter. Nothing, now, for over a week. She supposes this means he cannot send letters, which means he must be fighting. Would they send him straight back there, straight into danger, when he was still recovering from his injury? How much bravery did Britannia demand from her young men? Was there no limit to the sacrifices they were expected to make?

Miss Mardle, too, is unhappy today. Florian has left for a week, touring the North of England with his orchestra. He had not wanted to go, but the reason for the tour is to raise funds for the troops, and since he cannot fight himself he feels the need to help in whatever way he can. Josie frets about him, even though he is a grown man and in England, after all, he is perfectly safe.

Agnes feels unwell today. This morning she felt queasy, and now, standing in the display window surrounded by mannekins, the sun is shining through the thin voile of the curtains and making the space hot and airless. She feels faint, sits down. She rises slowly to her feet a few moments later and heads downstairs, into the cool of the basement, where the staff ladies' powder room affords her some privacy. Before she gets there, though, she feels a nagging dread of what may be wrong. Her legs feel heavy, her stomach bloated, and by the time she reaches the toilet cubicle she feels the familiar drawing pains in her lower belly, signalling the arrival of her monthly visitor. Whatever she had thought, expected, the truth is undeniable now. There is to be no baby. She grips at her empty belly with angry fingers and cries.

—

Dear Henri,

I wanted to write and reassure you of something. I know that after our last meeting, you had certain concerns over things that happened between us, things that might have had consequences for me, but I wanted to let you know that you need not worry about those consequences. I hope you understand what I mean because this is quite difficult to write. I just wanted to let you know. All is well here. I am quite well. I am sorry too because I think what happened was my fault, for not knowing how such things happen, and I made things difficult for you without realising. But now you do not need to worry any more, Henri.

Your Agnes

—

Ma chere Agnes,

I felt both somewhat relieved and very sad to receive your last letter. What transpired between us was in no way your fault, it was entirely mine. It was my selfishness that put you in this difficult position in the first place. Please do not feel that it was something you did, or failed to do. I understand, and I wish I could be with you, ma Cherie, because such things are a burden to bear alone, whether it feels like a good or a bad thing. However you feel now, this may change. You may wish to tell Miss Mardle, and I think that would be a good thing. I think she is a good friend and she will understand. Do not be alone, my darling Agnes. If I cannot be there, be with people who care about you.

I have such plans for us when we can be together again. I want to do everything to make you happy, to make you smile. Whatever your heart desires, ma cherie, it will be yours.

Sending you all my love, always,

Henri

—

By the time Agnes receives Henri's letter, his instructions have come too late. She has already told Josie.

Sitting in the evening in the parlour, Josie lays down her knitting and turns to Agnes. 'My dear, whatever's the matter? You do look so terribly sad.'

'It's nothing, Josie. I have - pains. You know. It's nothing.'

Josie continues to stare at her. Eventually, she puts the knitting to one side and goes to Agnes, sits on the footstool in front of her and takes Agnes' hands in her own. 'My dear girl,' she says. 'My poor, dear girl.'

And Agnes falls apart.

—

Ma chere Agnes,

I hope you are well. I have to tell you this may be the last letter for a while. Please, please, keep writing to me, your letters have given me such hope and I will need hope more than ever now. Tomorrow we are moving forward. Our training here is finished, and so we must move on. You must not be worried, cherie. Your love and your faith will keep me away from harm, and I know I will come back to you, because that is just the way things must be. You are strong, Agnes, and brave. I will write to you as soon as I can. In the mean time know that I am thinking of you all the time, every day, and remembering you. Do not forget about me, my darling, and I am sending you all my love, tonight and always,

Henri

—

Henri's last letter arrives on a Friday. Agnes has the weekend alone; Josie has travelled north by train, to hear Florian's last concert in Manchester. She leaves for work early, taking the letter with her, for comfort. Work has been getting easier, recently, but today Agnes feels no satisfaction in the displays she has spent the week creating. She has lived for Henri's letters, and they have come so regularly, several a week. Each one filled with words, broken up with little pen drawings giving her a flavour of his life as it is now. Sometimes, he has included a flower, pressed tightly between the pages. A daisy, a dandelion, even a white flower she could not name. It looked like a lily-of-the-valley, but surely that could not be possible, so late in the year.

On Saturday morning, Victor calls by. She invites him in, offers him tea.

'No thanks, Agnes. Very kind, but I'm a bit busy. Wondered if you fancied coming to the pictures tonight? Me, and Franco, and Gabriella, we'd love to have you along.'

She thinks about it for a moment. 'I don't think so, Victor. It's kind of you. But I'm not much company at the moment.'

He gives her a playful nudge. 'Don't like to see you so sad, old girl. Come on, come out with us. Cheer you up a bit.'

Agnes manages a smile. 'Go on, then. Thank you.'

'I'll call for you this evening, then. Get your glad rags on.'

She watches him from the window, walking down towards the market. A good man, she thinks, a kind man. She needs friends, even ones she nearly married.

—

On Tuesday, Mrs Selfridge visits the store. Agnes happens to be arranging the display near the entrance at the time, and when she looks up she sees her employer's wife, standing on the red welcoming mat. Agnes has always thought of Mrs Selfridge as one of the most beautiful women she has seen (in a store that is regularly frequented by London's beauties), but today there is so much of a change in her that Agnes feels her mouth drop open.

'Mrs Selfridge? How are you?' she asks, deliberately cheery.

'Oh! Oh… Miss Towler…. How nice to see a friendly face.'

Mrs Selfridge puts out a hand, touches Agnes's arm, and instinctively Agnes knows, and does not withdraw it. She tucks Mrs Selfridge's arm through hers, feeling bold at the familiarity, but the look Rose Selfridge gives her is a grateful one.

'I came to have lunch with Mr Selfridge,' she says. 'Do you think he will have time for me?'

'I'm sure he will, Mrs Selfridge,' Agnes says. They are walking - slowly - towards the lift. Agnes can feel Kitty's eyes boring through the back of her head. 'Would you like to go up to the Palm Court, or to the office?'

'I think… the office...'

They reach the lift after what feels like a long time. Agnes worries that Mrs Selfridge might collapse, and squeezes the woman's arm close to her.

'You're so kind,' she whispers. 'Thank you.'

When they finally make it to Harry Selfridge's office door, Rose is struggling. Harry rushes to meet them. 'Rose! My darling! What are you doing here…?'

As Mr Selfridge takes his wife in his arms, Agnes discreetly pulls up one of the office chairs, close, so that Mrs Selfridge can sit. She can hear the rasping breath coming and going. It reminds her of the sounds her own mother made, when she was dying. Agnes does not look. She closes the door quietly behind her.

—

The next day, Mr Selfridge calls Agnes to his office. The familiar fear - that something might have happened to Henri - floods her mouth, making her feel queasy.

'Ah, Miss Towler. I just wanted to thank you so much for your kindness yesterday.'

'Oh! I'm not sure…?'

'Mrs Selfridge told me that you had helped her so much, made her feel welcome back in the store.'

Agnes thinks of the pallor of the woman's skin, the wheezing and the sheen of perspiration on her forehead - the effort of walking from the car to the door. 'It was very good to see her, Mr Selfridge.'

A cloud passes across Mr Selfridge's face. 'I fear it might be the last time she will be up to such a visit,' he says. 'She is getting worse.'

A thought occurs to Agnes, who seems to spend her whole life trying to cheer people up. 'I wonder if it would be possible… to bring Selfridge's to her?'

'What do you mean?'

Agnes feels her cheeks flush, the way they do when she thinks she has had a bright idea, but isn't sure if anyone is going to agree. 'I mean - well, sir - we could put together a selection of the latest fashions, cosmetics, scent - a few things, maybe - and… well… I could take it to her at home?'

Harry Selfridge is regarding her steadily, as if considering it. Agnes wonders if he had even really been listening.

'Perhaps,' Agnes stumbles on, 'not so much for actual shopping, but to get her opinions, and to make sure she is still, you know, a part of everything?'

'Miss Towler, you know I think she would like that very much. And so would I.'

There is a tremble in his lower lip when he stands to dismiss her. Agnes wishes she could give him a hug, again. That she could do more to help.

—-

It is nearly three weeks before the next letter arrives. Agnes has been meeting the postman at the gate every day before work, going mad with it. Victor has been kind to her, but even his strategies are starting to fail. Besides, he seems to be with Gabriella now, and whilst they have not made things official - or even told her - she can sense him withdrawing, his attentions elsewhere. He has one more week at Selfridge's before the restaurant opens. Josie, Florian and Agnes are going for the opening night - guests of honour, Victor insists, but Josie is determined she's going to pay. The whole thing is starting to get awkward and Agnes is secretly dreading it. She doesn't feel like going out at the best of times these days, much less being some sort of centre of attention.

The postman is smiling at her as he cycles up to her. Such is her frame of mind that she automatically expects one of George's infrequent, brief letters, telling her he's still alive. Thanks to Henri's letter reassuring her that experienced soldiers are the safest, she has less fear for his life now than she used to.

The man hands her the letters, Henri's on the top. He laughs at her gasp of joy and calls 'cheerio!' to her retreating back, as she hurries back up the steps to the house.

'Agnes?' calls Josie from the dining room.

'I'll just be a minute!' Agnes drops the remaining envelopes on the hall table and flies up the stairs to her room, collapses onto her tummy on the bed, stares at the envelope, breathing. She doesn't want to open it yet. She wants to look at the handwriting, feel the surface of the envelope - one of the ones she sent him, in her last parcel.

At last she lifts the flap and takes out the pages - only two of them - and scans. There is a drawing on page two. Of her.

—

Ma chere Agnes,

I am so sorry that it has been so long. I have been very busy for the past few weeks and it has been very difficult to write. When things are quiet, even then it is not easy to write to you because there is nothing happy here, my heart is full of it and I do not want to worry you or pass any of the sadness on to you. We have suffered heavy losses, and my friend Albert D'Ansigny is severely injured. He has been sent home to France, to his family. I miss him, and those of my comrades who have been lost. So you see it is hard to write. Forgive me if I wait, then, until I am away from it and in a place where I can think of you and remember our happiness together.

Now, however, I have had some good news which I cannot write about. All I can say is that it means you do not have to worry about me, Agnes, all is well here. I hope you hear from George and that he is well. Also that your family - Josie and Florian - are well too. I have just received your last five letters, altogether. I cannot tell you how good it is to read them. I love you always, your

Henri

—

Agnes kisses the envelope, holds it close to her face, trying not to smudge any of the ink with her lips, or her tears. She recognises her own sorrow, reflected back in his words, and realises instantly that this will not do. It simply will not do. She has to cheer up. She has to be brave, and strong, and write back to Henri and give him something happy to think about. He sounds so low, despite the 'good news', whatever it is.

She looks again at the pen and ink drawing of her own face, her hat at a jaunty angle, one eyebrow raised archly, challenging, a cheeky smile on her lips. Yes, she used to look a bit like that. A scarf at her throat which may or may not be the one he gave her, the one he arranged around her neck as if she were his personal mannekin.

Agnes climbs off the bed and goes to the mirror, looks at herself now. Tries a cheeky smile. Fails. Tries again.

—

The only times she manages to smile properly these days are on those occasions when she sees Mrs Selfridge. She has visited once a week since she put the idea to Mr Selfridge. She puts together a small trunk with a couple of gowns, along with anything new that has come in, accessories, cosmetics. Mr Selfridge has instructed Agnes to charge whatever Rose wants to the company account, but so far Rose has only taken a small bottle of lavender water. This is not to say the visits have not been successful; in fact Rose Selfridge seems to be rallying, thanks to those few hours spent with what she calls 'a normal person' and then, sensing that this might have come across as vaguely insulting, 'a friend'. They talk about the store, the gossip, Victor's imminent departure for the restaurant, and how the Palm Court will cope without him; they discuss the society news, the royal family, in fact everything apart from the War.

It has become something of an elephant in the room.

After a busy morning, finishing off some ideas for a new advertising campaign for face powder (Selfridge's own brand), Agnes puts together a selection of beautiful things into her trunk, along with three new novels and some gentlemen's accessories, just for a change, in case Rose wants to buy something for Harry.

Rose Selfridge is in the drawing room, reclining on a settee with a rug over her knees. 'Agnes!' she says, holding out her hand. 'How good to see you!'

This is the first time Agnes has seen Rose Selfridge less than impeccably dressed and made up; even in her own home, she has exacting standards. Today, although her hair is neatly pinned, Rose is wearing a satin bedjacket.

'I am so sorry… for my appearance, Agnes. I just couldn't seem… to get the energy.'

'Please, Mrs Selfridge, you mustn't worry about that.'

'You're kind.'

Agnes opens the trunk and lists the items, bringing them forth one at a time for Rose to inspect and murmur over. As she suspected, Rose is delighted at the prospect of buying some gifts for Harry, and for Gordon. 'Very clever of you, Agnes… such a good idea…'

But it's not long before Rose is exhausted even by this. 'Sit with me,' she gasps, patting the settee beside her.

Agnes nestles against Rose's legs, against the warmth of the rug, while Rose rests her head back and closes her eyes. Agnes takes the slender hand in her own. It is chilly. She holds it between both of hers, warming it, seeing Rose smile.

'My girls… find all of this so hard…' she says.

'I understand how they feel,' Agnes says quietly. 'When my mum was unwell, I found it so hard to watch her in pain.' As soon as she has spoken, she regrets it. It feels too blatant, but Rose is nodding.

'I try… to hide it.'

The hand briefly squeezes, weakly, and relaxes again.

'Would you like me to leave you to rest, Mrs Selfridge?'

There is a pause, broken only by the breathing. 'No… please… call me Rose.'

Agnes feels this is almost too much to bear, but she can hardly refuse. 'Of course… Rose. Would you like me… maybe… shall I read to you for a bit?'

Rose smiles, as if this would be welcome, but she slowly shakes her head. And then she murmurs: 'Tell me… how is… Henri?'

Agnes swallows hard. Of course, Mr Selfridge would have told his wife about it, but this is the first time Rose has spoken of him to Agnes. She has been immeasurably discreet, not to mention anything, considering all the gossip they have discussed.

'I had a letter from him today,' she blurts out. 'Would you like me to read it to you?'

'Oh yes,' Rose breathes.

So Agnes reads, thinking at the same time how this is hardly the cheeriest of letters from him. But also fortunate that this one does not mention anything that might make her blush. She shows Rose the page with Henri's drawing of her, laughs at it. 'It looks like I'm telling him off, or something,' she says, and Rose smiles.

'He adores you,' Rose says. 'I always knew it.'

'Really?' Agnes can't help herself.

Rose nods. A little colour has come back to her cheeks, and her breathing is quieter. 'When he was…staying here. If he said… your name… he just seemed to light up, somehow.'

'I always thought he used to do that with Valerie Maurel's name,' she replies, but there is a wry smile.

Rose shakes her head. 'Not the same… at all.'

'Thank you,' Agnes says, and means it. There is a little pause. Rose sinks back into the cushions again, closes her eyes. 'I think I'd better leave you to rest.'

Rose holds out her hand, and Agnes takes it again. 'Come back,' she says. 'Please. Next week.'

'I will,' Agnes says, 'I promise.'

—

My dearest Henri,

I was so glad to get your letter. I can't tell you how much I've missed your letters, although I understand how it must be impossible to write when you're at the Front. In any case, I'd much rather you concentrated on what you were doing, rather than distracting yourself by writing to me. And much as I love your pictures, please keep a look out for bombs.

I am cheered, too, by the thought of good news. I know you can't tell me, but I'm wondering what it could be. If it means you are safe and well, then that's the best news of all and I cannot ask for more.

I visited Mrs Selfridge today. I hope you don't mind, but she asked after you and I ended up reading your letter aloud to her (luckily it wasn't a racy one). She is such a wonderful woman, Henri. I know she misses you, as does Mr Selfridge, and of course me. George has written to me a couple of times, he seems well although he never writes very much. Victor's restaurant is opening next week, and Josie, Florian and I are going to go for a meal on the first night. I think this is quite brave, he's going to be very busy and I can't think that the food will be very good. But there you go. I miss you still, so badly, Henri. Take good care of yourself. Sending this with all my love, always,

Your Agnes

—

Rose Selfridge has taken a turn for the worse. Agnes learns this from Mrs Plunkett, waiting outside Mr Selfridge's office, whence she has been summoned. Agnes is both relieved and alarmed - knowing now that the reason for his call is to explain Rose would probably not be needing a visit from Agnes after all, and not to let her know of something terrible happening to Henri, and yet concerned for the fate of the lovely lady she feels so sorry for.

'Miss Towler,' the big man says, from his desk. 'Please, take a seat.'

'Thank you sir,' Rose says. She decides to be bold. 'May I ask how Mrs Selfridge is feeling?'

Harry Selfridge puts down his pen and lowers his eyeglasses to the desk, pinches the bridge of his nose. Breathes in. 'She's quite unwell, I'm afraid. If it were not for this blasted War, I could take her away to a warmer climate, which might help. As it is, she is breathing in London's damp, cold air, and it is making things worse, I fear.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, sir.'

'I think, perhaps, it might be better to postpone your visit to her tomorrow.'

Agnes looks up, trying to think of the right words to say. 'I understand, Mr Selfridge. However - I was wondering if I might just pay a quick call. Maybe not to take her goods, but just to sit with her for a while? You see, sir, I did promise…'

Mr Selfridge smiles at her. 'You are kind, Miss Towler, thank you. I am sure she would like that. You two seem to have developed quite an understanding over the past few weeks.'

'We have.'

'I know Rose finds it difficult to receive her old friends. She finds it quite… stressful, I think.'

'Yes,' Agnes says, thinking of the society ladies and their expectations of each other. What a terrible thing, to feel such pressure to conform.

'But that's not why I needed to see you. I have something I need you to do for me, Miss Towler.'

'Yes, sir?'

'I need you to go to Paris for me. There is a design and fashion show next week, an opportunity to obtain some fabrics and get ideas for some lines for the new season. I need you to go on my behalf, take some drawings, purchase some things that you think we can use. Would you do that?'

Agnes is stunned, and for a moment does not speak. Harry Selfridge is looking at her with an odd sort of smile on his face. Why is he not going himself, she wonders? And then instantly realises that he does not want to leave Rose.

'Of course!' she stutters, trying not to sound too excited. 'But sir - why not Mr Thackeray? He's head of fashion, and -' Agnes is going to say that she will never hear the end of it if she gets to go to Paris instead of him, but cuts herself short.

'I really need your artistic flair, Miss Towler. You have, if I'm honest, a much better eye for colour and design than Mr Thackeray. So don't try and talk yourself out of a trip away, because it's you that should go. Miss Plunkett will arrange all your travel, and will make a hotel booking for you. I think you will need to stay four days, and I will write you a list of all the events you will need to attend, and any other details you might need. Any questions?'

Agnes knows she should have a hundred questions, but she is still in shock at the prospect of her going to Paris again, just like that. Outside, she sits with Miss Plunkett writing lists of boats and trains and hotels, her excitement mounting.

—

The next day, Agnes visits Rose, without her usual trunk full of Selfridge fripperies, but with a pile of Henri's letters (the ones that aren't too explicit) and all of George's. She has also brought, as an afterthought, a small box of Belgian chocolates, bought from a genuine Belgian refugee chocolatier who has opened up in the Strand (discovered and much celebrated by Florian).

Agnes is kept waiting in the drawing room while the butler goes to inquire as to whether Mrs Selfridge is at home.

Henri lived here for those few months before he left for France, Agnes thinks. From time to time she forgets that he is a gentleman, French nobility, even: he knows how houses like this one function, how to behave. And yet he had been so relaxed in his rented rooms, so far from all this extravagant beauty and decoration. She likes to think that they will end up, together, somewhere in between. Somewhere they will both be happy.

The butler returns.

'Mrs Selfridge is resting,' he says in a low voice. 'But she wonders if you wouldn't mind visiting her in her private rooms?'

'Of course,' Agnes says, getting to her feet.

The bedroom is dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn against the darkening afternoon outside. The atmosphere in the room is heavy. There is a smell in the room that Agnes cannot name. It is sweetish, medicinal, unpleasant. Rose is propped up in bed, wearing the same satin bedjacket. She sees Agnes, holds out her hand.

'I'm so sorry,' Rose says, 'to receive you…like this.'

'Please,' Agnes says. 'I'm just pleased you let me come in. How are you feeling?'

'A little better, thank you,' Rose says, and gestures for Agnes to sit on the chair that has been pulled up next to the bed.

'I'm afraid I didn't bring you anything from the store,' Agnes says.

'Thank heavens for that,' Rose says, and they both laugh. 'I'm quite done with shopping.'

'I shan't be able to visit next week,' Agnes says, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice.

'Yes, I heard!' Rose says. 'You're going to Paris…. How… wonderful for you.'

Agnes wonders, then, if sending her had actually been Rose's idea. She would not have put it past her. And of course, Rose would never admit to interfering. But there is something about Rose's smile - serene, always enigmatic, today even more so - that makes her sure that she knows more than she is letting on.

'I brought some more of Henri's letters,' Agnes says. Now the subject has been broached, she longs to talk of him some more with someone else who knows him well.

'Lovely,' Rose says, settling back. 'Thank you, my dear.'

Agnes reads, and although she flushes, reading out loud Henri's words of love, there is such a level of understanding between the two women now that she feels no shame for it. The suggestion from the letters - the intimacy between them - is that Henri knows Agnes better than anyone might have guessed.

When the letters are finished, for a moment Agnes thinks Rose might have fallen asleep. Her breathing is quiet. 'When I think I might never see him again…' She cannot finish the sentence.

'Oh, but you will,' Rose says. 'I am sure of it…. And when you see him… you must send him my love.'

Agnes smiles. Rose may be a lady, may be an American, but she and Agnes are well-matched in terms of positive outlook. Maybe that's why they can be such good friends, even under these difficult circumstances.

'Will you come and see me…. And tell me… all the Paris gossip?'

'Of course I will, Rose,' Agnes says. 'Of course.'

She gets up to leave, taking Rose's hand gently in hers and bending her head to kiss it. 'I shall come and see you as soon as I get back. Bye, till then.'

—

Dear Henri,

I have had some good news myself. Mr Selfridge is sending me to Paris next week, for a few days, to visit some fashion houses and prepare some designs for next season. He is sending me rather than Mr Thackeray! Needless to say, the old codger is less than happy with this news, and keeps giving me filthy looks every time he sees me. Josie tells me not to mind him, and of course I don't. In fact it makes me laugh. I'm sure he thinks I'm after his job, but he doesn't realise I'm quite happy with my own position. He went up to see Mr Selfridge after I told everyone why I won't be in next week, and came down again with a face like thunder!

It will feel strange, being that bit closer to you, my Henri, and yet still so far away. I'm writing this in the hope that somehow, maybe, you might be able to get to Paris to see me? It would be the most wonderful thing. Miss Plunkett has booked me into the Hotel Jules in Rue la Fayette, and I will be there from Monday until Thursday next week. I feel silly writing this, but you never know.

I hope you are still safe, my Henri. I am sending you another parcel via the Red Cross today, as I'm sure you could do with some more chocolate and tobacco by now. Not to mention writing paper, I can't have you running out of that!

Rose sends you her love. I will miss seeing her next week, and I hope to find her somewhat improved when I get back. She looks very weak.

Write soon, Henri. I love you.

Agnes

—

The trip to Paris is difficult to say the least. The London stations, the train, and the port offices at Dover are crammed with uniforms, everywhere Agnes looks is a sea of khaki. Unable to help herself, she looks for George, even knowing that he is in northern France or Belgium, and definitely not here. Agnes has made this journey before, she should feel some degree of confidence negotiating the route, but everything looks so different this time, and it is all so impossibly crowded.

The final train from Calais to Paris is a little easier. To her great surprise and relief, Miss Plunkett has booked her a First Class seat, which means she gets to have afternoon coffee and some patisserie, and sit in comfort watching the fields and villages fly past. And then Paris Gare du Nord is crowded once again, full of soldiers, and it takes Agnes a while to make her way out of the station concourse. By this time it's getting dark, and there are no cabs, so Agnes begins to walk towards the Seine, remembering roads and routes. It takes her over an hour. She is shattered from the journey, and her carpet bag - which mainly contains drawing materials, rather than clothes - is getting heavier. When she finds the hotel, she is both relieved and a little dismayed. It's not quite what she was hoping for, and she chastises herself for expecting opulence. She is, after all, a shop girl. And she has no fine clothes to wear in a posh hotel, anyway.

The Hotel Jules has a reception desk, and a residents' lounge leading off it. In her best, halting French, Agnes gives her name to the girl on the desk and explains that she has a reservation.

'Non, madame. Pas de reservation. Nous sommes complets, ce soir.'

Agnes tries to think of the French for 'please check again'. She feels impending horror at the thought of having to find a room for herself. Surely Miss Plunkett could not have made a mistake? Agnes must have written the name of the hotel down wrong. She fishes in her bag for the papers she has kept so carefully, all her travel tickets, instructions. There it is, in Miss Plunkett's handwriting: Hotel Jules.

'Moment, s'il vous plait.'

The girl disappears off into the back office, leaving Agnes standing at the counter.

She feels someone behind her, and worries now that there is someone else waiting to check in.

'Is there some kind of problem?'

Agnes turns quickly at the sound of the voice.

Henri Leclair is standing behind her. She puts a hand to her mouth in shock, staring at him, taking him in - the uniform - he looks so different - and yet his smile is the same, the twinkle in his eyes at having surprised her. And then he takes her in his arms, holds her tightly against him. Agnes finds herself squealing a little, and then closing her eyes fiercely in case this is all a dream, and she's about to wake up. She does not want to wake up.

Into her hair, she hears him take a shuddering breath and she thinks he might be crying. But when she pulls away from him, to look again, to make sure he's real, he is smiling.

'Henri,' Agnes says. 'Oh, my Henri… what are you doing here?'

The woman comes out from the back office. Henri rattles off something in her direction, something Agnes struggles to follow. Apparently, he has been waiting for her in the guest lounge for most of the afternoon. The woman is not happy. Henri says something in a tone that suggests he could not care less, picks up Agnes's bag, and offers her his arm. She takes it, and they leave the hotel.

'I don't understand,' Agnes says. Her legs are shaking.

'I took the liberty of cancelling your hotel, yesterday,' he says. 'I have an apartment in Paris, still. Well, it belongs to my father, but he is not using it as you know, so…'

'So?'

'So we can stay there. If you would like to, that is. I'm sure we could find you a hotel…'

'No! Oh, Henri. You got my letter, then? I can't believe you were able to come…'

He chuckles at her. The streets of Paris are emptying, but he manages to hail a cab, which stops and picks them up. Once Agnes is inside the cab, Henri takes her hand. 'I'm afraid I had some help with the arrangements,' he says. 'I knew I was going to be here for a few days, and that I would not have the time to get back to London. So I wrote to Harry and asked if he could send you to Paris.'

Agnes's mouth falls open in surprise. 'But I'm here to work!' she says. 'I'm supposed to go and see the fashion shows…'

Henri shrugs. 'If you want to,' he says. 'But I am sure Harry is not expecting you to do very much. You want to see his letter?'

Agnes nods. By the dim light from the gaslamps outside, she catches the gist of the letter:

…. Of course, I will do anything for my dear friend Henri…. And more so for Miss Towler, who has been a pillar of strength for my Rose… both have a good time in Paris… leave it all to me.

Agnes feels her eyes fill with tears at the mention of Rose, and knows now for certain that Rose sanctioned this visit. That was why she was so certain that Agnes would see Henri again. In her head she whispers a fervent 'thank you', that she will repeat when she visits again, next week.

Agnes grips Henri's hand tightly, as if she is afraid that he will disappear if she lets go. He touches her cheek with his free hand. His eyes are dark.

—

The cab stops outside a tall, elegant building, and Henri helps Agnes down. He pays the cab driver while Agnes waits on the pavement, shivering. She is not cold. The paintwork around the door is faded, Agnes notices. She has no idea where in Paris they are, but it feels like a decent area. Agnes is so tired from the travelling and the shock of seeing Henri, waiting for her, the whole thing is starting to feel vaguely hallucinatory.

He takes up her bag and smiles at her, before climbing the stairs to the front door and opening it with a latch key. She follows him inside. There are stone steps with an iron ballustrade leading in a gentle curve. He waits for her patiently on the landing of the first floor. There is a door to the right, a large, wooden door. He inserts a key and opens the door, allowing it to swing open. Agnes follows him inside, waiting on the doorstep while he lights the lamps, flooding the rooms with warm light.

Agnes looks around, eyes wide. The high ceilings and ornate cornicing suggest grandeur, but the furniture is more of the comfortable and shabby variety. There are spaces on the walls where paintings used to be, heavy curtains which are frayed at the hem. In the hallway, an incredible crystal chandelier.

'It's not much,' he is saying. 'I think, maybe, a hotel might have been better…'

'It's wonderful,' Agnes breathes.

'Do you want something to drink?' he asks. 'I have coffee. And wine.'

'Wine, please,' Agnes says.

Now they are out of the dark, dank Paris evening, Agnes can take him in. He has lost weight, she thinks, and she may be imagining it but there seems to be some tiny flecks of silver in his dark hair. But his eyes are the same, and the way he looks at her. She follows him into the kitchen, another enormous room with a vast, uneven oak table in the centre of it, mismatched chairs on a stone floor. The room feels warm, and she realises the stove is lit.

'I arrived at lunchtime,' he said. 'I tried to tidy up a bit, but, you know… nobody has lived here for years.'

'Henri, it's lovely.' There is something cooking, something that smells delicious. 'What's in the oven?'

'It is just a stew. Not much. Are you hungry?'

'Starving.'

He comes towards her slowly and she feels her breath quicken. 'Agnes, I will ask you to sit down but first I want to…' and he kisses her. She melts at his touch, opening her lips to him instantly and gasping a little at the sensation of his tongue moving against hers. He lets out a moan. When they separate, he says softly, 'I have been longing to do that.'

'I still can't quite believe… all this…'

He laughs, pulls out a chair for her at the table. 'I know. I am sorry. I thought I should tell you, but there was always a chance that things might have changed, I could have been sent away without warning. Until this morning, I did not know for certain that I would be here.'

He pours her a glass of red wine, lays a placemat, knife, fork in front of her. The same for him.

'There's so much I want to ask you,' she says. 'How are you? How are you, really?'

'I am fine. And so much better, for seeing you.' He lays a hand over hers.

'Has it been really bad?'

His expression changes for a second, but then the smile is back. 'Yes, there was a bad few weeks. Terrible, in fact. Others are going through much worse, and for longer. We lost many men. When we were relieved, I was sent to see a commander of another military division. I did know anything about him. He asked me about my job in London, he gave me a cigarette and we shared some wine. He asked me how I learned to speak English, and what other languages I know. I told him I speak English and German, and some Italian. And then he offered me a job.'

'A job? I don't understand…'

'His interpreter had died the day before. Of a heart attack.'

Agnes thinks this through. 'What's this man the commander of?'

Henri hesitates before he replies. 'You cannot tell anyone about this, Agnes. You know that? Not anyone. Even Harry.'

'Of course.'

'This man is in the French Intelligence Service. So you see, I am in Paris for a few days and next week I could be anywhere. But it is not likely that I will have to fight. For the time being.'

'Oh, Henri! That's wonderful to hear.'

His expression suggests he feels otherwise. 'Yes, it's true. But I feel guilty, leaving the men I have fought with to go back into danger.'

He stands, abruptly, not letting her see any more of that cloud that has crossed his eyes. He finds two bowls and, using a cloth, removes a heavy-looking casserole from the inside of the oven, clattering it onto the wooden table. The oak surface is scarred with years of people doing the same thing and not using any sort of mat. He takes cutlery from a drawer that sticks, spoons steaming meat stew into the two bowls. A delicious smell rises from the bowl, beef, garlic, red wine.

'Smells good,' Agnes says cheerfully.

'You know I am not a good cook,' he replies, blowing on his spoon.

'You're French,' she says, as if this is an explanation.

That's better - she has made him laugh properly, this time. Only now does she realise there is a tension between them. She had thought it was because she is tired, not really focusing, still not quite believing that this is real, that she is here in his family's apartment, with the man she loves. As she eats, she tries to concentrate, tries to work out what it is that's off. Henri does not take his eyes off her. Every time she glances up at him, he is watching. There is love in his eyes, but something else, too. Eating gives her time to think. But nothing really comes to her.

When her spoon comes to a rest in the empty bowl, he offers her more.

'No thank you,' she says. 'That was delicious, but I'm full now.'

He strokes his fingers gently down her cheek, his chin in his other hand.

'Is everything all right?' she asks at last.

'Everything is perfect,' he says.

But she is not reassured.

—

Agnes does not intend to fall asleep. She has undressed to her chemise, and is waiting in bed for Henri, like the sacrificial lamb she is named for. Her eyes keep closing. They have been lying here, together, for an hour; there seems to be no urgency to their lovemaking. It feels as if Henri is taking things slowly. After all it has been several months. It's as if they need to find each other again. The kisses have been long, and slow, and deep; his hands over her body - and hers, brave, over his - have been gentle but not intrusive. For long minutes they have just held each other and looked into each other's eyes.

Henri gets up to turn the lights off in the apartment. Agnes does not feel him coming back. The darkness turns off her brain, and she drifts off.

—

When Agnes wakes up, for a moment she is confused. She lies still in the darkness, getting her bearings. From somewhere outside, she hears drunken shouts, echoing off the walls of old buildings. Someone yells something in French, a drunken curse and laughter in response. Agnes lifts her head from the pillow, looks around.

Henri is not there.

She pulls back the covers and lowers her bare feet to the threadbare rug. The drunks outside have moved on; the flat is quiet. She gets up and walks to the bedroom door. The high ceilings and vast rooms seem even bigger in the darkness, the shadows are immense. She thinks about calling out for him but he might have fallen asleep on the settee; she doesn't want to disturb him.

When she gets to the drawing room, she has found him. She stops in the doorway and waits. He is sitting beside the open window, his back to the wall, one leg drawn up. His hand, holding a cigarette slowly burning down, rests lightly on his knee. He is looking out over the street outside. It is a warm night, the rain has stopped. She looks in wonderment at him, his naked back smooth and muscled, his trousers casually undone, as though he has pulled them on for propriety's sake. His face is sharply outlined by the moonlight, the curve of his cheek and the line of his jaw.

Agnes feels a sudden, sharp pang of love for him. And she sees that there are tears sliding down his cheek.

'Henri?'

He turns, suddenly, and his face is in shadow, giving him a moment to run his hand over his wet face. 'Cherie,' he says, holds out a hand to her.

He grinds out his cigarette and throws the butt out of the open window. He pulls her gently onto his lap, and she moves closer, as close as she can get to him, and folds her arms around his neck. 'I'm sorry I fell asleep. I didn't want to.'

He laughs a little, into her throat. 'You were tired, my love. You needed to sleep. What are you doing, out of bed?'

'I woke up and wondered where you were.'

'I'm here. I won't leave you.'

She thinks, for a moment, distracted by his cool skin, his tongue tracing a delicate line under her ear. 'Henri. What is it? What's wrong?'

Agnes feels him tense, just slightly. She waits for him to lie, or fob her off with something he thinks she wants to hear. She is not imagining it. Despite it being the middle of the night, despite her tiredness and disorientation, she knows something is the matter.

He pulls back from her so she can see his face, lit by the stars and the half moon. Takes a deep breath. He is not smiling. 'The war,' he says. 'I don't sleep well any more. I fear that I am not the same man you knew, Agnes.'

She touches his face, trying to find the right words.

'In the park,' he said, 'you told me you loved me.'

'Yes I did,' she says, with conviction. She has a sudden jolt of fear that he is going to say he doesn't feel the same way.

'But so much has happened even in these few months. Things I have seen… things I have done. How can things ever be the way they were? We can never be the way we were. It will be the same with your George. He will come back a different person, Agnes. This war is going to change us all beyond recognition.'

She feels her heart lurch, touches his face. He puts his hand over hers, brings it to his lips, kisses the palm. 'It will be different, Henri, of course it will. But who knows how different it would have been anyway, if you'd stayed? It can't be helped, all this. We have to be apart for now, but you will come back to me. You will come back, Henri, and then our life together can begin properly. And I will love you, no matter what has happened or will happen until this terrible war is over.'

'Agnes,' he says. There is a catch in his voice.

She cannot bear it, pulls him tight, his face buried in her neck.


	2. Chapter 2

When Agnes opens her eyes it is barely dawn. Her body is fitted close against Henri's, they are a tangle of limbs that fits so perfectly that she cannot tell where she ends and he begins. Her face is against his throat. In the halflight she can see the pulse bumping under his skin. His breath is on her forehead and from the rhythm of it, she can tell he is asleep. She tries not to move. He needs every bit of sleep he can get.

Her right leg crosses his body and his hand is laid over her ankle, as if he wants to stop her running away. Between them, the fractional tesselated space where their bodies meet, is warmth and dampness and the scent of sex. Agnes's back and shoulders are chilly and she contemplates turning, finding the covers, pulling them up. To do so would be to wake him and she cannot bear to do that just yet.

She remembers lying like this, one of her legs between his, her knee hooked around his hip to keep him close, last night - although she doesn't remember falling asleep. This time, he had used some protection - a rubber thing that he applied to himself. Even in the dark she hadn't much liked the look of it. But if it meant he could relax, make love without pulling free at the last moment, leaving her so bereft, then she would accept it. When they had both finished he had gone to the closet and removed it before coming back to bed and wrapping himself around her again.

'One day when the War is over we will have no need of it,' he said. 'But I cannot bear to think of you, sad, while I am not there to comfort you. Or worse, having a child by yourself.'

Agnes summoned up her courage to ask: 'Do you want to have children one day, Henri?'

He was stroking her hair. 'Of course, of course I do. With you. Do you?'

'Yes,' she said. Certain of it, surprising herself.

'But I want to be with you, when it happens,' he said. 'I want us to be together, so that when you tell me one day that you are expecting our child, I can hold you and kiss you and celebrate our happiness. And I want to lie with you every night and watch as your body changes, as our child grows. I don't want to miss a moment of that.'

She laughed: 'You want to see me getting all fat and tired out?'

Eyes closed, he had smiled at her. 'You will be even more beautiful with our child inside you. I know this.'

Outside, Agnes can hear shouts in French: deliveries being made, people beginning to go to work. She tries to lift her head and realises that Henri's arm is resting on her hair. The movement has woken him. She looks at his sleep-crumpled face, the smile that spreads across it as he sees her and remembers. Then his arms tighten around her body. 'My Agnes,' he says. 'I was dreaming of you, and you are here.'

'I need to get up,' she says. 'I have things to do today. Appointments.'

He chuckles, 'Yes, since you are determined to keep Harry Selfridge happy…'

'You can always come with me,' she says, hopeful. Henri's opinion of the fashions and fabrics will be invaluable. It's not that she does not trust her own judgment - but working together, they were a formidable team. Besides, it has been a long time since she was in Paris and it has changed so much. She is wary of finding her way around on her own. Also, she's not quite ready to let him out of her sight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for your kind comments, I really appreciate them! I haven't done this before and I'm still learning how this works... and I've never been very good at chapters, so forgive me that this is a bit all over the place. Anyway, here's chapter three for you - Henri and Agnes have a busy day... and then as evening falls, Henri has a surprise in store for Agnes. Please let me know what you think! **

Agnes is deep in conversation with a woman who reminds her, alarmingly, of Valerie Maurel, when she realises Henri has disappeared. He was sitting on one of the comfortable chairs, waiting for her, legs casually crossed, looking relaxed, and now he is not there.

'But there is nothing like this in London,' Anne-Marie Fleurot is saying.

'I agree,' Agnes says, the silk fabric slipping through her fingertips, wondering what the Selfridges seamstresses will make of it.

Agnes had tried hard not to like Valerie Maurel. In the beginning, she felt nothing other than awe and admiration of the woman who was so different, so daring, so disarmingly French; she had challenged everyone's perception of what was right and proper when it came to the selling of cosmetics and perfumes.

'Just because it's fashionable in France, doesn't mean it's appropriate for our customers,' someone had said. Agnes couldn't even remember who it was that had said it, one of the men, probably - she was too taken with Miss Maurel, with her outfit - bold, almost masculine and yet so - whatever that word was - alluring. Sexy.

She had seen the way Henri looked at her, when she had surprised him in the studio. Instantly she knew that she could not compete with that attraction.

But Valerie had not been in competition with Agnes - she was nothing but charming towards her. Even now, Agnes could not feel any animosity towards her, despite how close Henri had come to a prison sentence or even a death sentence for spying, because of the choices Valerie Maurel had made. Everything happened for a reason - and whatever had happened, it had meant Henri is now here with Agnes and not with his first love.

Except he isn't. Agnes finishes the order with Anne-Marie Fleurot and the fabrics are being boxed ready to be shipped to London. Agnes looks around for Henri, but he has not returned.

'Did you see what happened to Monsieur Leclair?' Agnes asks.

Anne-Marie replies with a gallic shrug, as if she had not even noticed his presence in the first place.

She heads down the stairs, wondering if she could find her way back to the apartment, not even knowing the address, but then she breathes a sigh of relief: Henri is waiting for her outside, leaning against the wall, smoking. He throws the cigarette into the gutter and smiles at her.

'Successful?' he asks, slipping her arm through his.

'Yes, they had some amazing silks. I've been very brave. I hope Mr Selfridge doesn't mind.'

'He trusts you, of course. And he is right to.'

'Where did you go?' Agnes asks.

Henri smiles. 'I was arranging a surprise for you,' he says.

'A surprise?'

'Yes. For tonight. I hope you don't mind. But now, you have another appointment, yes?'

There is a fashion show at one of the larger stores. Agnes and Henri sit together and while Agnes watches and takes notes, Henri sketches the designs. He is much quicker than her, and besides, it is the fabrics and the cut that Agnes needs to note - the details will be worked out by the designers and the seamstresses at Selfridges. The skirts are getting shorter and shorter, that much is clear - the cut is looser, hanging from the shoulders and not from the waist. It feels very bold, very liberating.

By the time Henri and Agnes return to the apartment, it is late afternoon and Agnes is hungry. They stop at a boulangerie and buy some fresh bread, then next door to buy cheese and some ham that the man slices from a joint hanging from a string. Back in the kitchen, they sit at the table and eat with their hands, leaving crumbs all over the scarred oak surface, talking and laughing about the differences between Paris and London, drinking red wine from heavy goblets that are surely some sort of crystal.

From the drawing room, the grandfather clock chimes six.

'We should get ready soon,' Henri says.

'Are we going out?'

'We are.'

'Are you going to tell me where?'

'Not yet.' He is twinkling at her, relishing the surprise.

'Henri, I hope I don't need to look too smart. I don't have any evening dresses or anything like that.'

'Aha,' he says. 'I thought not.'

He gets to his feet. Waits for her in the doorway. Beckons.

When she gets to him, he slips a hand around her waist. The touch, after hours of just friendly contact between them, is thrilling. 'We don't need to get ready just yet,' he murmurs, his mouth finding the space just under her ear. 'Let's go to bed.'

'Henri,' she says, pretending to be stern.

He is kissing her now, kissing her with fierce intent. Hunger. And she finds she is just as ravenous.

When he breaks away she gasps.

'Or even… not bed…' he says, his hands lifting her skirt, tugging at her underwear and failing.

She pulls him by the hand to the settee, pushes him into the seat, kneels between his thighs. Her fingers are clumsy at undoing his belt, pulling his trousers open, and he has to help. He is already hard. Agnes knows his body but it still thrills her to see, this undeniable evidence of his desire for her. She stumbles to her feet and steps out of her underwear. His arms are open, welcoming her onto his lap, her skirt bunching around her waist. She sinks down onto him. He guides his cock, stroking it against her body. She feels her own wetness making him slippery.

'Agnes,' he breathes against her throat, 'my Agnes.'

She sinks down, impaling herself. The fullness of it makes her gasp. Against her knee, an ancient spring from the settee presses into her, bruising. She barely feels it. His hands slide up her bare thighs, around her bottom, pulling her tighter against him. She moves, slides herself forwards, circling her hips, her hands on his shoulders for support.

'Slowly,' he says, 'please.'

How easy it is to get carried away with this, she thinks: how easy to be led astray with the sensation of him filling her. As she moves, she thinks she can feel him growing, swelling. His eyes are closed in concentration and when he opens them she can see right inside, right down into his soul. He smiles. She slows her movements. Henri reaches up and strokes her cheek with his fingers, his touch light. 'I love you, Agnes,' he says.

She lowers her face to his and kisses him deeply. They are joined at the mouth and the sex, she thinks. It will be like this forever. She holds him as tightly as she can and he lets out a low moan into her mouth. When she moves again he holds her hips still.

'You have to stop,' he whispers.

Agnes pouts. 'Why?'

'I cannot stand any more,' he says. 'If you move, it will all be over for me in a moment.'

Reluctantly, she raises her hips and feels his escape. She moves back between his knees, looking up into his face, taking his manhood in her hand. It's been a long time since she was this close to his erect penis, in daylight. Years, in fact. That last night they spent together was mostly spent face to face, heart to heart, sex to sex. Sex to mouth - this thing she likes so much, secretly, after all how do you tell someone how much you like doing something so apparently strange? - has not happened in full light since those first, incredible months of discovery.

She presses her lips against his hot skin, which smells of her own body. Henri's long fingers thread through her hair, encouraging her to continue. He tips his head back, breathing hard, as she takes as much of him into her mouth as she can, moving her hand over him at the same time. She concentrates, building a rhythm, listening to the sounds he is making which are becoming louder and urgent. And then she hears him saying 'stop, stop' but not as though he really means it. She knows what is going to happen - she's seen it, after all, when he has pulled out and finished with his own hand, but even so the force of it takes her by surprise. And the taste. She hadn't expected it to be like that. It's unusual. Not unpleasant. What she's done feels incredibly bold. It makes her smile.

She looks up, kissing him tenderly as he subsides, twitching. His arms and legs are draped as if he's passed out, his head tilted back, his chest rising and falling.

She lets him go, rises and sits neatly on the settee beside him. 'Are you all right, Henri?'

He opens one eye and regards her with a wicked grin. 'Agnes Towler,' he purrs.

'Monsieur Leclair?'

'What you do to me.'

He strokes her face, pushing stray strands of hair out of her eyes. 'I am sorry I messed your hair.'

'Well, if we're going out somewhere posh, I need to do something with it anyway.'

'Ah,' he says.

He fastens his trousers and gets to his feet. Agnes retrieves her discarded underwear and follows him into the bedroom. Hanging up on the wardrobe door is a gown, midnight blue, velvet, fitted. Agnes opens her mouth in a gasp. 'Henri! What's that?'

'It's for you to wear,' he says. 'You like it?'

'But - what if it doesn't fit?'

He raises his eyebrows at her. 'You should put it on and see.'

He waits.

'Well, go on then!'

'Agnes, I have seen you naked.'

'I don't care. Go and wait in the other room.'

He laughs at her, and departs. She shuts the door firmly. In truth, whatever he does with his eyebrows, Agnes is looking at the narrow fitted waist of the gown and thinking it can't possibly fit. He has estimated her size, her shape, and he has imposed his fantasy woman onto her figure. She unbuttons her plain, functional workday dress and hangs it up - it has to last her the rest of the week - and lifts the velvet gown from its hanger. It feels heavy and deliciously soft. The buttons are at the back, velvet covered, small. She pulls it on over her head and the silk lining whispers over her skin like her lover's breath. She reaches behind to fasten as many buttons as she can reach.

In the mirror on the wardrobe door she looks at herself appraisingly. She pulls at the stray strands of her hairstyle and fixes them back into place. Pinches her cheeks to give them a bit of colour. It's hard to know what it is about the woman that looks back at her, wearing a gown that doesn't belong and yet looks incredible. Agnes does not feel herself. And she thinks that, maybe, that's exactly it: she is not a girl wearing this; she is a woman.

There is a sound from the door, a soft knock.

'Henri,' she calls. 'I need you to help.'

She does not look round but hears a small sound - approval? - when he comes in. He appears at her shoulder and she feels his fingers deftly fastening the remaining buttons. The neckline of the gown is low, daring, forming a perfect cupid's bow over her decolletage, making her neck look long and slender. Only when Henri bends his head to drop a kiss onto her bare shoulder does she think: it fits me perfectly.

He places a hand gently on the back of her neck. Only then does he meet her eyes in the mirror. 'You look beautiful,' he says. 'Stunning.'

—

An hour later, Henri and Agnes are in a cab driving through the crowded Paris streets. He has not told her where they are going, and Agnes is fidgeting beside him. He loves her excitement, that she wants to know and yet won't ask; he loves that she is wearing her everyday coat over the gown because he didn't think about how cold it would be this evening and that he would need to find her a fur as well as a gown. He loves that she doesn't even mind. They will discard her coat and his overcoat in the cloakroom and then it won't matter, she will dazzle the whole of Paris, the whole of France, wearing that dress.

He wishes he could have bought her a fur stole, at least. If he had only had the time…

She slips her gloved hand in his and gives it a squeeze. 'I can't believe this,' she says. 'I can't believe I'm going out in a gown, I feel like a proper lady!'

Henri laughs, 'Agnes, you are a lady, whatever you are wearing.'

The cab stops and Henri alights, helping Agnes down the step. She is concentrating on lifting the heavy skirt out of the way, stopping it catching in the door of the cab, worrying about the puddles. He pays the driver, and when he gets back to her she is looking up at the Paris Opera, her mouth open.

'Is this…?'

'I thought you might like it.'

'Is this where we're going?'

He slips her arm through his.

Agnes doesn't speak again until they take their seats. Not the finest seats in the house, far from it, but they were the best he could do at short notice. You'd never think the war was raging, just a few hundred miles away. Here, society iss carrying on regardless. Henri recognises some society faces in their boxes. The gowns are fabulous, the jewels are as much in evidence as they ever were. He has never found it distasteful but there is something unsettling about it nonetheless.

'I can't believe this,' Agnes whispers again. 'It's not at all like the Gaiety.'

Henri watches her face, enjoying her reactions to everything. He loves showing her new things, he always has.

'Is it - the one you had on your gramophone? Do you remember? The one with the students?'

'No,' he says. 'That was La Boheme. This one is called Madama Butterfly.'

'Madama Butterfly?' she turns to him. Her eyes are liquid, shining. 'What is it about?'

The orchestra is tuning up, everywhere people are talking, laughing. He wants to kiss her, badly, but of course he cannot.

'I have only heard this once before. The soprano - the main female character - is the finest opera singer in Japan.'

'She's come all the way from Japan?'

Henri nods. 'She is touring with this company all around the world.'

The lights dim and Agnes turns her attention to the orchestra, which has begun the prelude. He wants to watch the stage but he cannot take his eyes off her; her skin has a translucence, an unblemished smoothness that reminds him of the fine Oriental porcelain that his grandmother thought so precious. He can barely keep his fingers from her cheek. His gaze slips to the neckline of her gown, the perfect white skin, the slope of her breasts. Later, he will unfasten those buttons one by one and slip the gown from her body. He is aware that he left her without satisfaction this afternoon. He intends to redress the balance.

Agnes's mouth is slightly open, her bottom lip plump and moist, a glimpse of even, white teeth. Henri looks at her mouth, remembers what it did to him just a few hours ago. As she does so regularly, Agnes Towler took him completely by surprise. He is in awe of her.

At that moment she turns her head slightly, catches his eye. Smiles, widely enough to show him the dimples in her cheeks. His heart breaks, just a little.


	4. Chapter 4

**Henri and Agnes at the Opera - but things don't go according to plan... please let me know what you think!**

—

For some time Henri becomes lost in the music, the way he always does. It is entrancing, even from frayed seats in the second gallery. Then, in the second Act as Tamaki Miura begins the aria _Un bel di _Henri glances across at Agnes. Her eyes are wide, tears spilling from them. He takes her hand, holds it, but she cannot tear her gaze away from the stage.

—

After the performance they wait to collect their coats. Henri asks Agnes if she is hungry.

'I'm famished,' she says with a smile.

Around the Paris Opera, bistros and bars stay open late, even in wartime. They find a small bistro a couple of streets away, just two or three tables still occupied. Henri orders for both of them and the food soon arrives: chicken, vegetables, bread, a carafe of white wine for them to share.

Agnes sets about the food gratefully, which gives her an excuse not to talk. In truth, the opera has affected her. Not just the music, which was sublime; nor was it the costumes, the beauty of the set, an imagined Japan, all gardens and serenity: no, it is the story that has unfolded before her. The young, naive woman, falling in love with an older man for whom she is nothing but entertainment. The leaving, and the coming back; the betrayals, the half-truths, the thought of love, so easily dismissed. Not to mention the child.

She is aware of Henri's eyes on her, but she cannot meet them.

'Did you enjoy it?' he asks at last.

'Yes,' she says, between mouthfuls. She must not eat too quickly, for what will she do then? 'I really enjoyed it. It was incredible.'

'It was,' Henri says.

'Thank you so much for taking me. It was a lovely surprise.'

She tries to sound thrilled, but instead she finds she is trying not to cry. Memories of Henri leaving her for Valerie Maurel, all those years ago, keep coming back. She always understood that their affair, then, was not serious; but even so, his departure had been sudden, unexpected, and it had hurt. Really hurt. If Henri had not been serious about her then, she thinks, how can she be sure he is now? And how would it have been if he had been more careless - or unlucky - and if he had made her pregnant after all? For all his talk of love, and of wanting to be there when she has a child, how would it be between them in reality?

Henri has finished eating. He drinks his wine. Agnes is aware that there is an atmosphere between them now, that he is watching her. He senses that something is wrong. Sooner or later he will ask her what it is. And she has been so happy - so happy! - these past few days, being here with him, why does she have to spoil it? She should just enjoy this while she can. Who knows what lies around the corner? There is a war, after all - and in two more days she will travel back to London, and he will go back to goodness knows where, with his new job and all its secrets.

With relief, she thinks of something she has been meaning to ask. 'I didn't know you spoke Italian,' she says.

He does not answer, and his silence makes her look him in the eyes for the first time since arriving at the Opera. His face is dark with it, unsmiling, and she wonders if her question, or her mood, have offended him in some way.

Henri pays for the food and they leave in silence. They walk together back to the Opera, where a line of cabs waits to take the night owls back to their homes.

'I learned languages at school,' he says at last. 'One thing I was good at.'

'Oh,' she says, wondering at the thought processes that have been working their way through his head since her question.

'I like to travel.'

'Have you been to lots of exciting places?'

At last, he offers her a brief smile. 'Many, yes. I hope, one day, when the war is over… maybe we can travel together. Would you like to?'

'Yes,' Agnes says. 'Yes, I really would.'

They remain in silence until they get back to Henri's apartment. Agnes alights by herself, waits for him on the step. They climb the stairs to the apartment together. Henri unlocks the door and stands aside to let her enter.

Strange, Agnes thinks, how quickly this apartment feels like home. And yet, there is so little of hers in it; just her carpet bag, her dress hanging in the wardrobe, her sponge bag in the bathroom. In two minutes she could collect her things and be gone. It's almost tempting.

She hangs her coat in the wardrobe and slips off her gloves. The bed looks inviting but she resists, and of course, she cannot get out of this dress by herself. Bridges will have to be crossed.

In the warm kitchen, Henri is sitting at the table with an opened bottle of wine in front of him, two glasses. One of them is already half-drunk.

'Would you like some?' he asks, when he sees her come in.

'Yes please,' Agnes says, although she thinks she probably should not.

He pours her wine and she sits, a little stiffly in the dress. Following their supper, it feels rather tighter than it did when she put it on. Even so, she is not looking forward to taking it off.

'You seem sad,' he says at last. 'I fear I have done something wrong.'

'No,' she says quickly. Here it comes, then, the confrontation. She knows she cannot let it pass, takes a deep breath in. 'It was the opera. It was so sad.'

He looks relieved, and laughs. 'Yes,' he says, 'but it is just a story.'

Agnes feels dismissed, and that makes everything worse. Very well, then, he wants to know. She will tell him. 'It reminded me of us,' she says. 'How things started between us. Don't you think?'

She sees him frown as he considers it. Before he can dismiss it again, she continues: 'it reminded me of how it felt, when you left. Henri, I really did love the opera, I love this gown, I love every minute of this evening, but -'

'But?' he asks, when she stops short.

'But I can't help wondering if… if it might happen again.'

'What? What might happen again?'

She bites her lip. 'I mean if you should see Valerie.'

Henri looks shocked for a moment, then a half smile crosses his lips. Agnes wonders again if he is not taking her seriously, feels anger rising. It all feels like a game for him sometimes. She is a specimen, his ingenue, his entertainment; someone he can observe with interest as she learns about the ways of the world. Tonight, she is fed up with it.

'What's amusing you?' she demands.

The smile widens. 'I am not amused, my darling Agnes. I am just relieved. Come, let's go to bed.'

Before she can object he has got to his feet, collected the bottle of wine and the two glasses and headed for the bedroom. Agnes does not feel like it, any of it. In truth she would rather sleep alone tonight. But first there is the awkward matter of the gown and its infernal buttons to deal with. He has not, she notes, denied any lingering feelings for Valerie. He has not protested, he has not sought to comfort her, to cajole and plead with her not to think that of him. In short, he is not playing the game.

He turns on the light beside the bed, placing the bottle and the glasses there as if he might get thirsty for wine in the night. She thinks he looks tired. It is possible that he wants to sleep, is ready for sleep, despite the fire inside her that is desperate for him to fight back.

When he comes over to her she almost finds herself backing away. Instead, she turns her back on him. 'Would you mind…?'

He unfastens the buttons slowly, one at a time, until the gown slips away from her body. Under it, she is still wearing her corset and chemise. She steps out of the dress and he takes it, hangs it up and places it inside the wardrobe next to her day clothes. Agnes unclips her corset, trying not to sigh with relief when it comes free. She sits at the dressing table and unpins her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders, before brushing it in long, practiced strokes.

Henri is undressing. She looks away at first and then feels a surge of bravery that might, or might not, be a result of the anger that is already subsiding inside. There seems little point in being angry with him. He refuses to rise to the bait, anyway. And being angry is self-defeating. She is in Paris, in Henri's apartment, and they are going to spend the night together. She has nowhere to run to.

Unlike her, he does not stop at his underwear but carries on, folding his garments as he goes, until he is naked. He stands behind her. 'May I?' he asks, then takes the brush from her hand. She can see him in the mirror, the intense concentration on his face as he brushes her hair, first the brush and then his hand, stroking her hair from roots to ends. Each knot is dealt with gently, brushing the tangle until it disappears.

Agnes clears her throat. 'The fashion now is for women to have their hair cut short,' she says.

'Indeed,' he says, continuing to brush.

'I might have my hair cut,' she adds. 'It looks much less trouble to me.'

He smiles. 'It might seem that way,' he says. 'But women always spend a lot of time trying to get their hair just so. Curling, dyeing and so on. It just means a different sort of trouble to all the pinning and the twisting.'

Henri puts the brush down on the dressing table but he continues to stroke her hair, running it through his fingers. When she turns, she realises he is aroused. Perhaps she won't cut her hair, after all.

'Come to bed,' he says. 'We should talk about it.'

'About my hair?' she asks, shivering as the cold sheets touch her bare legs.

'No, not your hair,' he says. He has poured the wine and passes her a glass. 'About Valerie.'

'Oh,' Agnes says, surprised. This is it, she thinks. It's Valerie after all, isn't it? He will always be in love with her.

'You think I still love Valerie Maurel?' he asks, as if he can read her mind.

Caught out, she has nothing to say but: 'yes.'

'Well, I do not. I love you. Remember, I told you that?'

Agnes bites her lip. It feels like she is being told off. She takes a sip of the wine, places the glass down on the table next to her. Then picks it up again. It is comforting, to have something so heavy to hold on to.

Henri takes a breath. 'I can see why you would think that, how the opera is like how it was between us. In the beginning, when I first met you, Agnes, I wanted you so badly. You were… I don't know how to say it… attractive, beautiful, but there was more than that. I could not stop thinking about you. I wanted to get to know you intimately. I wanted to make love to you. But I was not in love with you, then. Or I did not believe I was.'

Agnes swallows some more wine. 'I know that.'

'Sometimes,' he says, 'it takes other people to make us see things as they really are. For you, it was Victor. And for me, it was Valerie.'

'What do you mean?' Agnes asks. The wine is going to her head already, this deep, dark, French red; it is rich and warm and like the velvet of her dress, heavy and sultry.

'You believed you were in love with Victor, I believed I was in love with Valerie. And we were both wrong. You know, I never told you what happened at the American Embassy, did I?'

'No,' Agnes says. She wondered, of course, but hadn't wanted to pry, hadn't wanted to rake over the past when suddenly the future had looked so incredibly bright. And that's what she was doing now, exactly that: raking over the past and causing them both pain.

'Valerie told me that she had made a mistake, that she had chosen the wrong man. She asked me if there was a chance we could try again. And I told her no. She asked me if I was in love with someone else. I said yes, I was. And then she said goodbye and walked away. And you know how it felt, Agnes?'

Agnes doesn't answer.

'I felt so happy, because I knew it was the right thing. And of course I went back to Selfridges to tell you, and you were marrying Victor, and you were so certain that it was going to happen. I could not say anything to try and stop you because it would have been wrong. I was too late. And even then, even knowing you loved another and that you were soon to be married, I did not, for one moment, think that I had made a mistake in saying goodbye to Valerie.'

Henri turns to face her, reaches out a hand and strokes her hair softly, winding the length of it around a finger.

'So you see - it was like Madama Butterfly in the beginning, maybe, but we have rewritten the ending. In our story, Pinkerton goes to America and makes his mistakes with other women. And then he returns to Japan and sees Butterfly and realises that he has been wrong, he was wrong to leave her because he was in love with her the whole time and didn't even realise until it was nearly too late. And then he and Butterfly make love, and they stay in each other's arms, and they are happy forever.'

He laughs, and then she does too. And catches her smile with his lips in a kiss that is long overdue.

Agnes thinks: _he means it. He is telling the truth…_

—


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi! Thanks for your reviews, I really appreciate your kind words. I hope you don't mind a bit more smut... xx**

Henri dreams of falling, and starts awake. His days invariably begin thus. He can never remember the dreams, which he thinks is a good thing, only that he is plummeting into darkness and that something terrible is waiting for him at the bottom. Often he wakes to find he has been asleep for a matter of minutes, and then he cannot relax enough again to drift off. It is only ever sheer exhaustion that sends him to sleep these days.

But this is definitely morning; the sun is up, spreading light across the rug and making motes of dust dance in its beam. He has been asleep for hours, hours. He cannot remember the last time he slept until morning.

He looks across to Agnes, who is still fast asleep, tangled in sheets and blankets, her hair spread out over the pillow, one hand lying curled loosely next to his face. He wants to kiss her fingers but thinks this might wake her, so for a while he lies perfectly still and watches her chest rise and fall evenly.

After a few moments he gets out of bed carefully, trying not to make the bed creak. He needn't have worried. Tired out from the past few days, and the late nights, Agnes is still deeply asleep.

He visits the bathroom, washes, shaves, and makes coffee in the kitchen. He does all of these things naked, at ease here in this place that feels almost like home. He is thinking about their discussion last night and what it might have meant. Henri had not considered the effect the opera might have on his lover. He had simply wanted to share his love of music with her, to witness her experiencing such a sublime thing for the first time, to give her an insight into his world, but instead she has given him an insight into hers.

He had not appreciated how hurt she had been by his departure, all those years ago. Ever the pragmatist, he simply assumed that the role he had taken in their relationship - tutor, if you like - had come to a natural end and she would find someone far more suitable to marry, eventually, if that was what she even wanted.

He had never intended to hurt her.

The thought of it is mortifying.

He takes his coffee and stands in the doorway to the bedroom. Agnes is still asleep. The sight of her makes him smile.

He puts the coffee down next to last night's wine glasses, goes to the next room and comes back a moment later with her sketch book and drawing pencils. Carefully, he sits cross-legged on the bed. Agnes sighs and shifts a little but stays asleep. Henri smiles again at her, how she can seemingly sleep on, despite all the noise he has been making.

He looks at her for a long while, as the light turns her skin translucent, glowing, flawless. Her eyelashes, fanned out over her cheek. Her lips parted as her breath sighs in and out. Her hair, tangled in a mass of dark waves. He begins to draw, concentrating on the lines and curves of her, the angle of her shoulder, the collar bone under her skin, the hollow at the base of her throat. He loves the way she looks. It's all he can do to stop himself pressing his lips into that place, to feel the warmth of her, the hot blood just beneath the skin.

Last night they had talked and talked. He felt as though she was angry with him, and she was probably right to be. Agnes is no longer his ingenue, his innocent. Just because he has experienced more of life than she has, he has no right to presume how she should or should not feel. He has been dismissive of her feelings, amused by them almost.

What does he know of love, after all?

How should he presume to know?

He will not make that mistake again.

He pauses in his drawing, drinks some coffee. His pocket watch, on the table, shows that it is half past seven. He will wake her at eight. There will be time to make love, before getting ready to go out on whatever pretend mission Harry Selfridge has suggested for her today.

Henri stops short - he is doing it again. Dismissing her. He must stop this. So what if Henri set this trip up for him, so that he could see Agnes? She is taking her business here seriously, and in a perverse way he loves her even more for it. By visiting the suppliers, sketching designs in the fashion house yesterday, she is becoming even more valuable to her employer. Even if it is taking up time that they could be spending alone together…

He turns the page. This time he draws her hand, just her hand. Even the curve of her fingers is something so beautiful it feels as if he will burst with love. Her fingernails are clean, trimmed to an even length, just a small curve of white at the tips of her fingers. He has a sudden recollection of the way she held him in her hands, looking up at him, concentrating, asking permission with her eyes. Checking that she was doing it the right way.

As if anything she did could possibly be wrong.

After her left hand, he turns the page again and draws her right hand, which is resting on her tummy, above the sheet; relaxed into a graceful flex, like the hand of an angel in a Michelangelo fresco. He thinks of how it might be, one day, to hold that hand in both of his and slide a ring onto her finger. Henri wonders what she would say if he were to propose. He has thought of it many times, but something is holding him back. It is not that he is uncertain of his intentions towards her: she is now the only woman he will love. It is more that he senses marriage is not her heart's desire, not yet, in any case. She told him she wanted to have children, but he knows that this is not one of her priorities. She is a free spirit, just finding her wings - how can he dare to clip them?

When Henri looks up, Agnes's eyes are open and her lips are formed into an amused smile. He has forgotten, for a moment, how searingly blue those eyes are, and his breath is snatched away by the force of her gaze.

'Good morning,' he says softly, returning to his sketch.

'What are you doing?' she asks, laughing.

'I am drawing your hands,' he replies.

'Why?'

He puts down his sketch. It is done, anyway. And now he does not wish for her to lay still any longer. He leans forward and kisses her on the mouth, exploring. Her arms slide around his neck, pulling him closer.

'Because they are beautiful, of course,' he murmurs, moving his mouth down to her throat, to the place where he has longed to kiss. 'As is the rest of you.'

Agnes sighs as he moves across to her, welcomes him under the sheets and blankets and into her arms. 'You're cold,' she says, wrapping herself around him to warm him up.

He thinks of waking in the pre-dawn, in the biting cold, everything damp, the percussion of distant guns instead of birdsong. He had thought of her warm skin, then, and thought he should never hold her again. And now she is here. He moves his hand down her back, his fingers trailing into the curve at the base of her spine, and she shivers a little.

'Did you sleep?' she asks.

'Yes, I slept well,' he says, relieved to be able to tell the truth.

She moves one leg over him, pulling him against her, and he slides his hand down her warm thigh. Her boldness is arousing and makes him smile. He trails kisses up the side of her neck, under her ear, kissing and then sucking gently on her earlobe.

'To think, I never knew,' Agnes says softly, as though she is thinking aloud.

'Knew what, my darling?' he murmurs, distracted by a glimpse of her breasts and moving to kiss them.

'That this was so wonderful, to do this,' she sighs.

He slips a hand between their bodies, begins to caress her intimately. She throws her head back into the pillow, gasping. If he enters her now it will not take much for him to reach his climax. He distracts himself by pulling her arms free from his neck, so that he can move down, planting kisses on her soft skin as he does so, until he can bury his face into her warm, damp sex. Immediately she opens her thighs wider to welcome him, threads her fingers through his hair, guiding him gently.

'You like this?' he asks, although he already knows the answer.

'Mmm,' she says, 'I think so…'

'You think so?'

'I think I need… more experience of it… to make up my mind…. Oh!'

His tongue has found her sensitive spot and is circling it, feeling it rise and swell as she grows more aroused. _Hello, sweet one,_ he thinks, smiling at the thought that this is his place only, that her little bud is getting to know him just as he is becoming acquainted with her. He dips his tongue lazily into her space, feeling the wetness, tasting her desire. Impatiently, her hands on his head pull him back to that special place. She is learning, he thinks, beginning to rub his tongue over her with purpose, building a rhythm, fast and slow, teasing.

He listens to the noises she is making and holds her hips still while she writhes and moves under his mouth. He loves this; loves the surrendering of it, the power of her body, how it releases itself, how she loses control. He has always found this the best part of making love. Witnessing a woman laid waste before him, knowing that he was the cause of it, is something he finds unbearably arousing. And whilst concentrating on the rhythm of his movements, there is suddenly something else: the thought that _he must remember this_. He must remember the taste of her, the feeling of her warm skin as it slides under his tongue; he opens his eyes, watches as her body changes, how it moves, commits every last detail to memory.

Her fingers flex and grip his hair tightly as she cries out. Her body twists and pushes into his face; muscles tighten and contract for several long moments, and at last he feels her relax, the pressure released.

She lets out a long, slow sigh. Henri kisses the soft skin on her thigh. His face is wet with her love.

He wants to stay there; he could lie here all day, gazing at the source of her power, her jewels, her treasure. But she takes his hand and pulls, wordlessly drawing him back to her. He slides back up the bed until he lies next to her. He smoothes her hair out of her eyes.

'When you're ready,' he murmurs, planting a soft kiss on her forehead, 'we can go out to your next appointment.'

Agnes smiles at him. 'Thank you,' she says.


End file.
